No Dawn, No Day
by quipquipquip
Summary: Living, you're allelopathic. Everything around you withers up and dies-and that's not your fault. You got that from your father. It's a shame, really. Damian/Stephanie, future AU based on Batman 666/700
1. Chapter 1

He killed a man that night, and Batwoman caught him.

His first thought was that his father would have been displeased. Father was a lingering specter, his words and teachings sticking in every place and situation he would have wanted him to stay the hell out of; he had no choice in which hollows his memory settled. His laws were rigid even years after his death, and as much as he wanted to scrub them out he _couldn't._

Bruce Wayne had been a man who had made his own laws and had lived by them so religiously, the laws had become synonymous with him. So, every man and woman that followed the laws of the Bat kept him alive in sharp ways.

The others kept him honest. He wasn't sure if he hated them for it or not.

"You're a stupid fuck, showing up like this," Batwoman said as she dropped from the eaves. Her heels clicked a staccato beat as she stormed over to him. "You disappear for months, then kill a guy while dressed like that? What were you _thinking?"_

_"Leave,"_ he snarled, adopting that gravelly throb of authority in his voice that his father had used as effectively as a whipcrack.

It glanced off her harmlessly. She didn't so much as blink.

"No."

His lip curled.

"You're not needed here. I have this handled."

"Handled?" she echoed, blue eyes blazing. _"Handled?_ You killed him!"

"Handled," he repeated calmly, coolly.

"Damian, you're out of control."

His name hung in the air, pendulous, and it shivered over his skin. He honestly could not remember the last time someone had used it. Had it been Drake, during the explosive fight that'd chased Red Robin out of the city? Had it been the Commissioner, when she'd called him a monster and told him that the GCPD wouldn't hesitate to bring him down if they crossed paths again? Had it been Pennyworth, on his deathbed? Had it been Grayson, when he'd pleaded with him to tell him that he was kidding, that he _hadn't_ made the deal?

He couldn't remember. He had been gone for a full year, so it'd been at least that long.

"Never use real names in the field," he growled back, fisting both hands in his cape and turning away. "Does the concept of secret identities fully escape you, _Stephanie?"_

"Who're we hiding our identities from?" She shouted, shaking her head. In the dark of the alley, her hair was bright and pale as an August nimbus. Really, she should have had it tucked under a mask or a hood; it was too bright and distracting for what they did. He'd told her that before, though, and she'd never listened. _Vanity._ "It's just you, me, and the dead guy."

"Those are the rules," he said coldly. "You know them just as well as I do."

"Last I checked 'no killing' was also a rule."

Her voice rang, high and clear. She was getting angry, and she wasn't prone to random fits of temper. He knew that he'd crossed the line, but he'd be damned before he admitted that aloud to her. He'd caught this thug in _flagrante delicto_. He'd had his pants bunched at his knees, the woman beneath him shrieking in time with his thrusts. He'd had a knife to her throat, a knife that had _slipped_ before he'd hit the cement.

Damian hadn't been quick enough to save her. The rage that simmered just under his skin constantly anymore had boiled over, and he hadn't cared that the punch he'd delivered had been accompanied with a sick, final _pop_.

There'd been a black pleasure, a release, in that sound. Damian hated himself for it, but he'd been bred to be a killer, not a savior.

"It was an accident."

"Come on, do you really think I'll buy that for a second? I know you. You don't have accidents-not anymore. Where have you been? Nobody has seen you in months. I thought-I thought you were dead."

Ha. If only.

"Go," he snarled. Even to his own ears, he just sounded tired.

"No." She stepped closer to him, unabashedly unafraid, head held high. He realized, with some surprise, that her head only came up to the middle of his chest. In his memories, she'd been much taller. "Damian, what has gotten into you? What's going on? Let me help."

And she really thought that she could help, didn't she? She was naive enough to believe that he wanted to be 'saved'-or was even capable of it.

"You can't," he told her leadenly. He shot a line to the rooftop, leaving before she could argue further.

Hopefully, the stupid woman would just give up.

For her own sake.

Yes, they kept him honest...or had tried to keep him honest, at least. The others had given up on policing him or had died or disappeared.

Batwoman was the only one left. It was only a matter of time before she went the way of all the others.

* * *

><p>Gotham had several flavors of psychotics, classifications for the different levels of insanity that poured from its broken homes and into its gutters. There were those who did horrific things with reason, who repeated the things that they themselves had endured-battered children who grew up to become bullies themselves, like Black Mask and Croc. There were those that killed and maimed to certain patterns, fulfilling obsessive-compulsive needs-the Riddler and his clues, the Joker and his punchline, the Calender Man and his dates.<p>

And then there were those few that resisted classification, that had left humanity and reason far behind. Those were the ones that had bloomed when they didn't fear the shadow of a Bat falling over them.

Child kidnappings weren't rare by any stretch of the imagination; not in Gotham, and not in recent years. It was the M.O. of dozens of the big name rogues, so he hadn't been able to connect it to anyone in particular. The sheer number of missing children-thirty in the last month alone-had made the search his highest priority, but it'd also put it on a reckless fast-track. He'd missed the obvious signs, the things that the Greatest Detective would have picked up on.

The trail led him to the forest. To the Green. To the mythical heart of the natural world that throbbed below the manmade steel and concrete of Gotham City. To the world where Poison Ivy was elevated from woman to goddess, to where her rule was absolute.

He'd stumbled into her garden unprepared, but what he saw in her beds forced him to act _immediately._

Ivy had gone back to the Green. In the absence of the true Batman, the Arkham bunch had strayed into corners far darker than anyone had thought imaginable. Their obsession with Batman had been personal, and Damian just wasn't him. He couldn't hold their interest like Father had, so they no longer performed for him.

They did what they wanted to now, and didn't care if he knew. Before, they'd been like unruly children searching for attention, always advertising their crimes in hopes that the big bad Bat might grace them with his presence.

Poison Ivy hadn't left any glaring clues behind, so he hadn't been prepared when he happened upon her nest. Her children lay at her feet, lethargic and satiated, some only twisted up in leaves while others had been half consumed by the flora. Arms became branches, skin became bark; her plants were slowly devouring the boys and girls, but they were too doped up to realize that they were dying.

She'd never targeted children like this before, not in his memory. Something had changed, and Ivy had redefined her complicated relationship between humanity and the Green. Sometimes, she embraced the innocence of all living things. Sometimes, she _pruned._

Usually, what she did could have been considered dead-heading-plucking away the buds that were spent or spoiled, so that the fresh ones could be stronger. It was immoral, but beneficial on a natural level. But not this time. Not anymore.

"You've gone too far," Batman said as he melted from the shadows. "This is sick."

Ivy canted her head towards him, her gaze dissecting. She was a beautiful creature, all luminous green-gold skin and red hair. She was unashamedly naked, no coy sprigs of foliage covering her genitals anymore.

She'd given up on being human, because it'd been the human in her that had loved Batman once upon a time.

"Oh," she murmured softly. _"You."_

"Let them go."

"I would think that you, of anyone, would see what a good thing it is that I'm doing, little Bat. The city has gone mad, and these little ones have sought sanctuary. They came to me, not the other way around." Ivy spread her hands wide, gesturing at her half-human, half plant garden/menagerie. "I give them love and protection-do they look mistreated? Do they seem unhappy? No. They're finally touched, finally embraced, finally _whole."_

"I do hope that you're joking," he snarled, "Because if you aren't, I'm embarrassed on your behalf. Set them free and give yourself up, or I'll start doing some _pruning."_

She laughed, showing wide yellow teeth.

"Look at you. You're trying so hard to be him, I just want to pinch your little cheek."

He shifted his weight unselfconsciously. What had given him away? _No one_ had been able to tell the difference. He could mimic his father's voice, his movements, more perfectly than anyone else could dream of. He had been bred to replace the Bat, so how could she have looked at him and just known?

"I _am_ Batman," Damian bit back.

"Darling, I'm a gardener. Don't you think that I can _tell_ a grafted plant when I see one? Tell me, do you even know what that is-what you are?"

She slid in his vision, the verdant edges of her brightening and blurring. His readouts had read negative for any of her known toxins; in his haste to get down to the children that might still be viable, the ones that he could _maybe_ save, he had thought that enough.

Shit. She'd changed more than he'd realized. She was putting out some new poison, and he'd been taking it in by the lungful. How could he have been so stupid, barreling in?

He blamed his time away. He blamed the frustration that had pushed him to killing that rapist earlier, the bleak, dark satisfaction that he'd felt when his neck had snapped. He blamed Grayson for being gone, his father for leaving him. He blamed Stephanie, because the stupid woman had been right.

A vine snaked up from the forest floor, looping around his neck and dragging him down onto his back. He tried to struggle, but his body wouldn't listen, wouldn't move.

_"Let me go, Ivy,"_ Bruce Wayne rumbled through him.

"Changing your song already? Tut-tut. _Grafting_ is the process of joining a desirable stem of one plant to the less desirable, but hardier rootstock," Ivy continued, ignoring him. "It's unnatural propagation, but man uses it to make such pretty things. They aren't real, you know. Not the real children of the scion or the stock. Just...a useful combination. Pretty, pretty fakers that take some genetic material from both sides and try to call themselves individuals."

His heart jackhammered in his ears. He was hyperventilating, some cool, reptilian corner of his mind told him, which was only spreading her spores through his system. He couldn't stop himself, though.

She had him.

He wasn't ready to wear this suit. He wasn't his father. What had made him think that he could be half the man Bruce Wayne had been?

"You're a useless bag of hot air and meat," Ivy said, clucking her tongue. She stroked soft green fingers over the curve of his cheekbone, her touch oddly gentle. "Living, you're allelopathic. Everything around you withers up and dies-and that's not your fault. You got that from your father. It's a shame, really. But don't worry, I'll put you to good use for my babies. Now give us a kiss, Batboy."

She smelled dizzyingly sweet, honey and jasmine and spice so thick that he was almost positive that he'd be smothered. She kissed his neck, cold lips against his racing pulse, and the way her red hair flooded his peripheral vision reminded him of Mother.

Red hair that smelled like honey and spice. A mother that was not a mother at all. Barren, yet fruitful all at once.

But god, he wanted to give her everything. He wanted to please her, to please Mother, to make all of his mistakes _right-_

"Hey! It's no fair picking on an easy target! Besides, you're way too old for him. You could be his grandmother, and that? Is gross."

The spore poisoning made him remote and calm, a cork bobbing on a peacefully calm sea of devotion to the Green Mother. Even Stephanie's loud, strident voice couldn't totally cut the haze, though it tried.

_Oh,_ he thought, as he watched Batwoman drop from the trees, _She followed me. She followed me, and now she is going to get herself killed. Why didn't she listen to me? She should know better._

Ivy seethed cold fury.

"Don't interrupt, girl. This doesn't concern you."

Stephanie stood out in the gloom of the forest, her hair as bright a gold as the soft motes of pollen that hung in the air. She wasn't wearing a rebreather. Stupid, stupid, _stupid._

"Wow," she said, hands squared on her hips. "I am getting so tired of people telling me that tonight. He's a bat, and I'm a bat, and that makes us kind of a thing, you know?"

_Yes, she should definitely know better._

"You _bats_," Ivy hissed, vines pulling away from the trees and dancing like live wires. "You think that you know best, but you're wrong. _He_ was always wrong, always trying to transplant me into smaller and smaller pots. I won't have it! I won't let my children suffer!"

"A mother doesn't serve up her kids as _fertilizer!"_ Stephanie shrieked, and there was a note of personal pain there that Damian's muddled-up head couldn't quite place. "A mother tries to do _right_ by her kids. You're a monster! Look at yourself!"

Mother. Mother, mother, mother. He could feel the consonants and vowels slide and bunch in his mouth. He'd read his father's files, so he knew that before she'd been the fourth Robin, Stephanie had been a-

Oh.

He got it, then.

Roots pulled up from the ground, some with children still attached like weird, heavy fruit. Batwoman leapt out of the way, dodging with an ease that surprised him. She had changed in the year since he'd last seen her-she'd gotten _good_. Either she'd found an excellent sensei, or Drake hadn't come back to help her keep the city clean.

Damian closed his eyes, holding his breath. The deal he had made had been a costly one, but it had come with appropriately hefty benefits. If he could keep from breathing for a minute or more, his system would burn through the toxins. But Stephanie couldn't last that long, wouldn't be able to hold her own against what Ivy had become, so-

There was a single, heavy smack of flesh-on-flesh. His eyes sprang open just as Ivy collapsed, unconscious.

Stephanie flexed the fingers of her right hand.

"Amazing what a good old fashioned punch can accomplish," Batwoman grinned, her eyes a little _too_ bright. "People always told me to use my head, that there were some problems I couldn't solve with punching. Well, what do they know, anyway? Punching solves _lots_ of problems."

She was less than steady on her feet, making him wonder how much of a sway Ivy had had on her-how much she had been forced to conquer by sheer force of will in order to throw that haymaker.

"Did you-" Damian sucked in a hard breath as he ripped the vines off of himself and got to his feet, trying to clear his swimming head. Focus. He had to dig deep to center himself once more. His cheater's body burned through the toxins. "-did you come here to _save_ me?"

He wasn't sure which part of the idea was more ridiculous-the fact that he was immortal and therefore didn't _need_ saving, or the fact that she would brazenly stick her neck out for him like that after all that had happened.

No one else would have come for him; the GCPD wouldn't have collectively pissed on him if he'd been on fire. He knew that.

Then again, Stephanie had just knocked Poison Ivy out with a single punch, so everything about the situation was a little bit ridiculous.

"Don't make a big thing of it," she said, breathless. "Just pay it forward, Bats. C'mon-we have to skedaddle before she wakes up." Sirens blared in the distance, getting closer. "Man, I love the power of a well-placed 911 call. That's our cue to leave this in the hands of the hard-working Gothamites. I'll take my payment in the form of a hot shower, if you wouldn't mind."

He considered that for a moment, listening to the approaching sirens. They had about a minute and a half. Popping a capsule from his utility belt, he opened a bottle of spray foam. It was general-purpose, able to smother fires in a pinch. He sprayed Ivy's body liberally. It'd clog her pores, rendering her unable to spread the golden dust of her influence. He imagined that it'd hurt. He _hoped_ it would.

"I'll drive. We need to do a thorough scrub-down as quickly as possible."

"Awesome. I apologize in advance to your upholstery. We are _groooodyyyyy."_

* * *

><p>Nothing was said during the drive back to the cave. The aftereffects of Ivy's pollen made them both feel lethargic, seasick and slightly drunk. Steph hadn't had protection against breathing in the spores because that function had been damaged weeks before, but she didn't have the technical know-how to fix her suit. Being the lone Bat had come at a steep price. Damian couldn't say the same, though-he'd had the tech, but hadn't realized what he was getting himself into. It'd been a rookie mistake, one that he wouldn't have made had he known how Ivy had been literally growing and evolving that year. Stephanie had been aware of Ivy, but she'd known better than to thunder into her garden without backup-or a reason dire enough to take the risk of not coming back out again.<p>

Watching Damian disappear into the trees-and _knowing_ that he would get his ass handed to him-had been a sufficient reason.

They stumbled out of the car and into the shower wordlessly, leaving a trail of leaves, mud, boots, and gloves in their wake. The Batcave's shower was airy and large, locker-room style. It was an all-purpose shower without stalls or doors; all kinds of things needed to be dragged in there and hosed down, so it wasn't made specifically for domestic use. Steph usually wouldn't have stripped down anywhere near Damian, but she needed to wash off any pollen or irritants Ivy's plants had left behind. A nice hot shower and _not_ breaking out in a literally killer rash were more important than privacy, so she just steeled herself and started undressing.

He hesitated before taking off the cowl-she could tell that he was thinking the same thing. The politics of mixed company was not something that the Batcave had been designed to address, really. Ever the boys' club.

But whatever. She'd known him since he was a kid-he was almost like a fucked up little brother to her. Nothing weird about that.

That thought evaporated as soon as he'd peeled the batsuit off.

At some point, Damian had grown up. He'd taken after his father's build, though he lacked Bruce's bulk. He had broad shoulders tapering down to narrow hips, hair on his chest and trailing down his belly. The muscles in his back and arms shifted under his dusky-tan skin as he washed himself. He didn't have a mark or scar on him-just unbroken skin the color of clover honey, the best that genetics could give.

Holy shit.

There was no way that she could call him a little boy anymore. Sharing a shower had been her worst idea that night, which had been a night just chock full of bad ideas.

Steph didn't realize that she'd been staring until the bar of soap she'd been holding slipped out between her senseless fingers. The noise was deafening in the silent shower. _Incriminating._

Damian looked at her over his shoulder, eyebrows arched. In that second, he was a stranger. He was a man that she didn't know, and she had to shove down the impulse to cover herself up. The only thing that had changed in the last thirty seconds was her perception, but the Damian Is Actually a Man epiphany was world-shaking. She had to turn quickly so that he couldn't see how red her face was.

"You dropped the soap," he said, very calmly.

"I was done with it anyway."

_"Tt._ Don't cry to me when you slip on it and break your neck."

It wasn't until later that she wondered why she hadn't thought about going up into the house proper to wash.

Once the adrenaline had drained out of them and various aches and pains were starting to bloom, it wound down like any other night patrolling. In their line of work, critical saves were a regular occurrence. They cleaned themselves up and moved on, keeping track of their personal scores without making mention of who was in whose debt this time around.

Steph took her time with patching herself up and redressing. Even if his attitude needed at least fifty major adjustments-and she still had to come to grips that he'd turned into an _adult_ at some mysterious point-she was secretly relieved that Damian was back. Gotham had been without a Batman for months. It wasn't a gender issue, really, though she'd thought that it was at first. She was just as capable as any other member of the Bat clan, but she'd been the only representative of said clan. Gotham needed a Batman-needed _the_ Batman, which wasn't possible anymore-and a single Batwoman hadn't blared the yellow symbol loudly enough. She'd done her level best, but her presence hadn't deterred crime the way the shadow of _the_ Batman always had.

No, they gave her shit, like she was some little girl pretending to be a big damn hero. They pushed her and pushed her and pushed her, because she wasn't _him._ It'd frustrated her nearly to tears, but Steph had never been the type to cry when someone told her she wasn't capable of being a real threat, a real fighter, a real _Bat._

But at the end of the day, she was a real _human_, and it showed. She hadn't had backup, hadn't had resources, so the hardships of the last six months were mapped in messy new scars and bruises. It was a good thing that Steph had given up on having a life and relationships outside of the batsuit, because, by her personal estimation, she was getting pretty _ugly._

She scrutinized herself in front of a mirror for the first time in a long time, seeing all her new scars in proper lighting. She traced a worming trail of fresh pink tissue down her side, frowning. Her pale skin and all-too-human body showed every mark.

Vanity had taken the backseat, but that didn't mean she wasn't a little self-conscious of how she looked, now. She'd pledged herself to Gotham the same way a nun pledged herself to her Savior. It gave her a reason to stop trying to have a normal life, an excuse to keep fighting until her scarred-up body gave up on her.

With the way things had been going, that 'until' had felt like sooner rather than later. So, she was silently relieved to have Damian back and wearing the cowl. She might have been the only one happy to see the little bastard wearing his dad's pointy ears, but she didn't care. She knew that he could convince Gotham that the ghost of the original Batman had risen again, and that alone could save countless lives.

Hopefully, saving his ass would make him feel obligated to include her in his new Bat dynasty. She needed the backup, the boost, and whether he liked it or not, he needed her, too. She'd proven her worth to him just like she'd proven herself to dear old dad.

His and hers.

Steph pulled the snug thermal shirt of her undersuit on over her head, having had more than her fill of looking at herself for one day. Still barefoot and leaving damp footprints in her wake, she joined Damian in the middle of the Batcave. He sat at his father's chair by the computer console, her ripped suit spread across his lap and his head bowed over it.

"I cannot believe that you're still wearing the Batgirl uniform," Damian said, not looking up. The disassembled bits of her black-and-purple suit were spread around him, and he was busily fixing and remaking things with tools she wouldn't even be able to name. He had a man's hands now, large and rough, but he worked with the tiny electronics almost delicately. He was the guy who'd rebuilt the Batmobile by himself, at age ten. "At _your_ age."

"I'm calling myself Batwoman, so don't give me that. Look, some of us have to wear last year's fashion because we can't afford anything else," Steph said sourly, sitting down. She ran her fingers through her wet hair, separating it to be braided.

Damian just snorted, holding a screwdriver in his teeth.

"You look like you crawled out of a gutter," he said dryly. "I find myself wondering if I should simply abandon fixing your uniform, since even an _excellent_ one wouldn't fix your face."

That barb hit. _Hurt._ Maybe he'd meant it to, or maybe it'd just been their usual depreciating banter. Regardless, Steph rubbed one of the pearly snail-trails of scar tissue on her arm and looked pointedly away.

"And you look like you finally hit puberty," she said, forcing herself to sound cheerful. It rang a little tinny. "Should I bake you a cake? I could totally bake you a cake."

He did look at her, then, just his very blue eyes flicking upwards.

"I see that you haven't changed at all. Just as crass as I remember."

"What can I say? My charm is endless."

"Unlike my patience with your idiocy, which is already being taxed."

"You say the sweetest things."

He wadded up the patched suit and thew it at her.

"Enough. This will hold for the time being. I'll drive you back home," he offered, which was his way of thanking her for saving his ass. For most people, a ride home was simple courtesy, but for Damian playing chauffeur to anyone meant that he felt especially obligated.

Her stomach knotted. No, that was not how he wanted to end the night. Better that he just sit and brood in his cave and dwell on a what an ungrateful, low-bred woman she was. She didn't wanted dropped off at her non-existant doorstep.

"Don't worry about it," she said, stepping into her uniform and tugging it up to her thighs. "I'm a big girl."

"Your suit was damaged. Your home is on the outskirts of the city, so you'd be chanc-"

"I don't live there anymore," Steph cut in, though admitting it jabbed little slivers of glass into her lungs. "I sold my place."

She could almost see the cogs and wheels turning in his head, the son of the World's Greatest Detective figuring it all out.

"Where _do_ you live now?"

"The Compact," she said airily, like living out of your car was the most natural choice in the world. "I'm revolutionizing hobo-Bat-chic. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. I mean, now I never have to hang up the cape. Being on call's easy if you never leave the street."

"You're an idiot," Damian deadpanned.

That stung, but he didn't know better.

Steph smiled. Her lungs burned from the scream she was holding in.

"You know me, D. Always living on the edge. I'll see you around, okay? Next time, call when you need backup."

He swung his chair around, already getting back to work. Not so much as a derisive _tt_. Had turning him down hurt those mythical feelings that he may or may not have had?

Maybe.

"You know your way out," he said, voice clipped.

Oh, did she ever. Damian wasn't the first Batman to tell her to get out. She wrestled her suit on the rest of the way, pulling her cowl on over her wet hair.

Just as she was turning to leave, he called, "My father would have been embarrassed to see you call yourself Bat_girl_ at twenty-six. I will fabricate a more _age-appropriate_ suit for you. Come back in three days."

Stephanie stopped, balancing on the balls of her feet, and stared at the back of his chair. He hadn't moved to face her, addressing the monitor in front of him instead.

"So...I'm on the Wayne bankroll again?"

"I'm merely saving myself the humiliation of being associated with an ill-equipped Batwoman," Damian told the screen loftily. "I'm protecting my brand."

Steph smiled at the back of his head. This time, she didn't have to force it.

"That's good enough for me."


	2. Chapter 2

The new suit was, in a word, _gorgeous._ She could hardly believe that he'd designed and fabricated the entire thing in just three days. She'd always suspected that he didn't sleep like a sane person, but this pretty much cemented it as fact. She could tell just by eyeballing it that the suit would be a perfect fit-and she _did not want to know_ how Damian had figured her measurements out-and it was so _her_ she was flabbergasted. It was mostly black, an inky material that seemed to suck in light rather than reflect it. It was lighter than her previous one, and not nearly as stiff or bulky. The bat symbol across the chest wasn't the usual yellow, though.

It was purple. _Her_ shade of purple. She traced its wingspan with her fingertips.

"The material is something new. Technically experimental," Damian explained, misinterpreting her reverent silence. He was frowning, looking at her searchingly. "It absorbs and redistributes kinetic energy to a ridiculous degree. You throw yourself into situations and...admittedly excel at punching your problems, so this uniform is tailored more to your needs. It will not rip, so you won't need to repair it." He paused. "It's...acceptable, isn't it?"

Steph couldn't keep the smile off her face. She grinned so hard, her cheeks hurt.

"This is just-it's-" Words failed her. She arched up on her toes and caught him in a one-armed hug, clutching the new suit to her chest. Damian expertly ducked out of her hug-slash-chokehold with a _"Tt."_

"It's beautiful," she gushed, still smiling. "Thank you."

"I _told you,"_ he drawled, rolling his eyes. "I'm simply making you more presentable. You act like you've never been given a gift before."

That statement hung awkwardly. Not one to let any silence settle for long, she held the suit up again and continued to beam.

"It has a hood," she observed, touching the violet fabric that lined it. It was different than the fabric of the rest of the suit-soft and warm, like fleece.

"Your old costume-that hideous _Spoiler_ number-had one," he said, which both proved that he had taken the time to look it up and that he had cared enough to incorporate the details. Sensing that he'd been caught doing something thoughtful, he added, "It's only practical. You insist on having your hair free, so the hood can cover it. You won't draw as much attention to yourself and will be far more successful when you have to blend with the shadows. Unfortunately, I couldn't design anything that will shut you up for that long."

She refused to let her mood be dampened. "Do you miss yours?"

"My hood? Don't be ridiculous. I don't carry attachments to the silly costumes that my father put into tradition. If given a choice, I would wear something more practical. A trench coat, maybe."

Steph snorted at the idea.

"That's _awful._ Like it or not, the capes and pointy ears are part of the legacy. People need the Batman, so you have to play the part."

She regretted saying it as soon as the words left her mouth, because Damian's face was suddenly expressionless. It was a controlled look, a remote one. It was only an absence because he couldn't allow himself to show how he was feeling. It held all the expressiveness of a clock face, the right arrangement of features and nothing else.

"I know," Damian said curtly. "Believe me, I am acutely aware of my obligations."

"D, I didn't mean-"

"No. You're right. I am my father's heir, after all."

There'd been a moment there where he'd looked like and acted like a real person. The suit that she held in her hands was proof that he had put time, thought, and energy into making her something special. He might have done it just as a nice gesture, or he might have done it because he felt he owed it to her for the save with Ivy. Either way, he'd shown more expressiveness in the last eight minutes than she'd seen in the last eight years. She hated that she'd stuck her foot in her mouth and made all those invisible walls of his go right back up.

"Thank you," Steph repeated, with feeling. "This means a lot to me."

Damian harrumphed, sprawling in the console chair and adopting his signature frown-sneer once again. It was a welcome alternative to nothing at all.

"And you not gallivanting around in the same thing that you wore when you were eight years younger and twenty pounds lighter means a lot to me, _Fatwoman."_

Stephanie smacked the back of his head, hard.

* * *

><p>Their first team-ups were not coordinated or planned for, or even expressly agreed upon. They were assumed, because both had realized that they were safer and more effective when they worked together. Despite their differences-and their arguments-they covered each others' blind spots almost seamlessly. They were no Batman and Robin, but Steph personally thought that they were something a little bit better. Neither of them had to take up the role of the sidekick, which was good, since they'd both outgrown it.<p>

They were equals, at least roughly so, and that was good enough for her.

Not every night was full of harrowing adventure and crime-busting, of course. There were slow nights, nights where the police scanner in the Batmobile only picked up the banal infractions that existed below the line of the things they showed up for. Mild domestic disputes, bar fights, speeding-there were some things that Batman didn't need to justice up. The Commissioner didn't light up the Batsignal as often as her father had, so they had to rely on the scanner chatter to keep tabs on things.

Damian wanted to answer nine out of ten calls. He didn't trust the police to do anything right, and he could power through hours and hours of constant patrolling. He was a machine. Steph, on the other hand, had her limits. She drew the line, because he seemed incapable of doing so himself. Batman had no place screaming _"USE THE CROSSWALK!"_ at some poor jaywalker.

_"-we have a 311 at 5th and Morrison, over-"_

Damian reached for the parking break, and she gave him a _look._

"A 311 is indecent exposure," she said.

"I know," he said.

"Some guy running around doing meatspin."

"I. _Know."_

"No," Steph said firmly.

"If it's worth calling in, it's worth our attention.

_"No."_

"You don't make the rules, Batwoman," he growled sullenly.

Steph pinched the bridge of her nose. "Punching a flasher in front of the Gotham Gazette? I'm sure that'll go over _so well._ I can see the headline now: BATMAN BASHES BALLSY BOOR. Can you see that headline? How about CAPED CRUSADER CRUSHES CRIMINAL'S CROTCH?"

Damian leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

_"Tt._

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

After a long moment, he said, _"Meatspin?"_

Steph had to smother a grin. "I'll tell you when you're older, D."

The scanner chose that moment to crackle back to life. The voice of the officer was high, his words rapid. He was scared.

_"-23110! I repeat, a 23110, on-"_

Damian arched an eyebrow at her.

"Does this call pass muster?"

"A 23110 is someone throwing things at cars. I don't really think that's-"

_"-DISPATCH, HE'S THROWING VEHICLES, OVER! HE'S-"_

"-okay, fine, someone's throwing cars at other cars and now we can go," Steph said quickly, buckling her seatbelt.

"Yes," he said, sounding more smug than she thought any one person could be. "That's what I _thought."_

* * *

><p>The Great White Shark hadn't ever been one of Gotham's rampagers, but times were changing and everyone was trying out new things. Old acts were rebooting, reinventing themselves in order to be fresh and new. Their target audience-Mr. Dark, Tall, and Batty-hadn't made it to any of their performances, so they were taking the chance to experiment.<p>

For White, 'experimentation' was a physical, literal thing. He'd doubled in size at the very least, his entire body bulging with ropy veins and thick slabs of muscle. His neck alone had to be as big around as Steph's waist, and she wasn't exactly a size 2. His face had widened and flattened, pulling his atrophied facial muscles into a constant leer of a toothy grin.

And boy, did he ever have a set of chompers on him.

"Holy crap, he's turned himself into a Street Shark," Steph breathed as they stood on the edge of a tower of metal shipping crates and surveyed the carnage in the yard directly below them. _"Jawesome."_

Since Damian lacked the rich pop culture upbringing of a child of the 90s, the reference sailed right over his pointy-eared head.

"What is that?"

"Jawesome," she repeated. "It's-"

"A portmanteau word of _Jaws_ and _awesome_," he said, and she could tell from his voice alone that he was rolling his eyes. "I know what you said. I was referring to what he's holding."

"Oh, uh." She turned the focus on her cowl up 150%, zooming in. Her stomach lurched at what she saw, acid burning the back of her throat. "I'm...mostly sure that that's a leg. Uh-yeah, I see toes. He's eating a leg. Definitely, definitely eating a leg."

"Cannibalism," Damian murmured thoughtfully. "That's new. I believe that he has dosed himself with a Venom derivative. I don't see a constant flow apparatus on him, so it might be a long-acting formula. But, it has side effects." His lips pulled back from his teeth in a disgusted grimace. "Clearly."

"That's _gross."_

"Give me twenty seconds," he said to her in an undertone. "He has crossed a line. I won't even need a weapon. I can finish this before it starts."

A realization hit her, as bright and jarring as a burst bulb.

Damian was asking her permission. He was waiting for her to give him a yes or no, an order. He'd had some kind of handler all of his life-his various sensei, his mother, his father, Dick-so he surrendered control to an older partner without even consciously realizing what he was doing.

He'd put his metaphorical leash in her hands and was making it her call whether or not she let him off his chokechain.

The realization turned her insides to ice.

"No," she said, and it took everything in her to keep the quiver out of her voice. "Leg-munching or not, we do this by the book."

He scowled, but he listened.

"Then what, pray tell, shall we do?"

"Jump."

"What?"

"We're going to jump the shark. If we can hit his nose or eyes, we have a good chance of immobilizing him. We can-"

The Shark's head jerked up, swiveling toward their hiding spot in the shadows. There was _no_ way that he could have heard them _or_ seen them, but with the way the ugly pits he called nostrils were flaring, she had a good idea of what had given them away.

"So...TMI..." Steph whispered, taking a step back. "And this is probably a _bad time_ to mention this, but...I'm kinda on my period..."

Damian sighed loudly. "The element of surprise, ruined by your bleeding vagina. Wonderful."

She could feel her cheeks burn. "Just shut up and jump already," she snapped.

"As the mad cow wishes," he said, and dove with zero hesitation.

Steph hated to admit it-which is why she'd never do it aloud-but Damian was beautiful in action. Watching him fight was like watching a special on the Discovery Channel-like seeing a wild animal in its natural habitat. Every possible hunting simile popped up; he himself was a shark, a tiger, a wolf. He was something that had fangs and claws, something that was just _born_ dangerous.

He hadn't told her to stay on the crates, but she did anyway. She could tell just by watching that the fight wouldn't take long, and she'd be more of a hindrance to him than a help. There wasn't any shame in it, honestly. Fighting was what Damian did, and she didn't have to meet him on that level in order to be his equal. She had her own specialties. _Stephcialties._

When he jumped, he folded his arms to his sides and dropped as straight and swiftly as a bullet. He spread his arms-and his cape-at the very last second, and the Shark got a good taste of Bat boot tread. There was a _crunch_, but it wasn't the kind of crunch that meant everything in him was broken.

It said a lot about her life that she could differentiate between the breaks that killed someone instantly and the breaks that crippled someone from sound alone. Fisting her hands in her cape, she glided down. The brief moment of freefall, of almost-flight, was wonderful.

She'd always been a little bit of an adrenaline junkie. All of them were.

"Cartilage," Damian explained, toeing his massive body disinterestedly. "He has gone full-out shark gimmick. Embarrassing, really."

"Someone cooked up the goop that turned him into that," she pointed out, crouching beside him and patting down his vest. He smelled like blood and rot and saltwater. It was enough to make her gag, despite herself. "Someone who might be cooking up all kinds of goops for all kinds of crazies. Even if it _is_ an extended release formula, he's got to have a close relationship with his dealer. I'll bet he-aha!" Steph fished a slim silver cigarette case out of his breast pocket. Instead of being filled with a neat row of cigarettes, it held business cards. "Jackpot. My superior detectiving skills have turned up a clue."

"Detectiving is not a word," Damian informed her loftily. "You are what is wrong with the English language."

"Ignoring you," she told him, thumbing through the cards. "Because I figured out before you did that a guy without lips can't smoke cigarettes. This makes me the Greater Detective."

_"Tt."_

One of the cards was gummy, the edges worn. There was a waterspot that made the ink lettering blur and bloom.

"Volper," she read. "And it has a number _and_ an address. This is probably the cluingest clue that we have to go off of."

"The-?" Damian groaned aloud, face in his hands. "Please. _Please,_ stop talking."

"Get White secured, then we'll pay this Mr. Volper a visit. My detective senses are tingling, Batman."

* * *

><p>The business card led them to the office of a shell company, which led them to a dealer, which led them to an opium den of all things, which led them to a warehouse full of stolen aircraft parts and missing city council members held in rigged, ornate cages. These cages were dangling precariously above pits. Logistically, the pits couldn't have been bottomless, but they were deep enough to spell city council pancakes if the cages were dropped into them.<p>

"And you said that tonight would be slow," Damian said as they laid side by side on a narrow outcropping above the as-bottomless-as-necessary pits.

"Yeah, and I take it back. Good ol' Gotham. Never a dull moment. Oh-head's up. We've got movement."

Sure enough, a man in a black business suit and mask entered the room. He had mechanical wings anchored to his sleeves, covered in a fringe of long black feathers.

"Wow, I can't believe someone let him leave his house like that," Steph whispered. "Those wings are terrible. Just. _Terrible._ Who in their right mind would wear wings like that?"

Damian, his patience spent, clamped a hand over her mouth. She would have bitten him, but she knew that he wouldn't feel it through his glove.

"That's the Vulture. First the Shark, then the Vulture. Two-thirds of the Terrible Trio." His lip curled. "C-Listers. _Trash."_

She did bite him, then. She wasn't exactly loyal to the memory of dear old Daddy Cluemaster, but she didn't like the implication that she had sprung from the loins of trash.

He let go of her, giving her a warning look.

"This will be easy," he said.

And it was, too. Damian repeated the boots-to-the-face trick from earlier, Steph disabled the cages, and for the second time that night, the day was saved. This level of productivity was nearly unheard of, and she wondered if this was a sign of how it'd be from now on. Batwoman and Batman, the pair of caped crusaders capable of cleaning up their city. It certainly had a ring to it.

The city council people that they saved were one part relieved, one part reverent. Damian played his role to the hilt, Bruce Wayne speaking through him whenever he opened his mouth. It was so eerie, it made her skin crawl a little bit. If she hadn't known who was really under the cowl, she would have thought that Bruce was back from the grave.

She wondered how it made him feel, to use his father's voice. Not good, she bet. Not with his welter of daddy issues.

They herded the victims out of the warehouse, but didn't wait around for the GCPD to come and shake their hands. They strayed far enough to hide, but close enough that they could make sure everything was wrapped up neatly by the police. Steph had to take a breather, checking her watch.

"3:42," she said, though he hadn't asked the time. "We've been going for seven hours without a break. Think we can turn in now? It's been a long night."

"I won't stop you," he said, eyes fixed on the murky, pre-dawn skyline.

"Buuut you're not done," she surmised.

"We've been following the Terrible Trio, Batwoman. Not the Terrible Duo. The Fox is still active, and if we drop the trail now it will go cold. That's unacceptable."

"And if we keep going like crazies, _we'll_ drop."

"Maybe you will. I won't."

"This is _not_ going to turn into an anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better."

"Why not?" Damian asked, canting his head to look at her. "I can do anything better than you."

"Why, you little-"

"Batwoman!"

He went ramrod straight, shoulders squared as he tried to pinpoint where that faint, warbling cry had come from.

"Did you hear that?"

"Yeah," she sad, tone uncertain. "But who'd...?"

_"Batwoman!"_

This time, it was louder. Closer.

Recognizable. She had to squelch the urge to punch something, hard.

_"Batwoman! Gotham's evening and morning star! I'm here, my love!"_

"Oh, for crying out loud," Stephanie muttered, mostly to herself. "Not _now."_

"I have come to save you, my exquisite angel of the night!"

"Who is this?" Damian demanded, hands curling into fists as a smeary gray figure bobbed into view. "Drake?"

And from a distance, his gray and black uniform did kind of look like Tim's original incarnation of Red Robin, which itself looked like the product of a drunken bender with Dr. Mid-Nite's tailor. She hadn't really made the connection before. Now that she had, she'd never _un_see it.

"I wish. No, he calls himself the Grey Ghost."

"Who?"

"A pain in my ass," Steph basically growled. They watched as he cut the distance across the rooftop, running while yodeling something poetic about her flaxen hair. "He's been stalking me for years. I busted him when he tried to hijack a train, and apparently a swift butt-kicking was the key to winning his heart. As soon as he got out of jail, he got himself some sophisticated tracking equipment and a dumb costume and has been trying to win me over ever since. He's, uh. Not playing with a full deck of cards, if you know what I mean."

"I see." Damian paused for a beat, then said, "I can take care of him."

"No," she said, raising both hands. "No, no, no. None of your _taking care of._ He's harmless. Stupid, but harmless."

"He's a nuisance."

"And while I agree with you on that one hundred percent, that's not a good enough reason to break his face."

"I don't see why not," he said flatly, frowning.

"Of course you don't. Seriously, take five. I've got this."

She met the Grey Ghost halfway, before Damian could argue with her. Touching his shoulder, she turned him around and started walking him in the opposite direction.

"Clancy. Hi. I know that it's Tuesday, which you've arbitrarily decided is our date night, though, as I've told you at least fifty times, it's _not._ But anyway, I'm kind of busy? I mean, you see Bats standing over there, right?"

Clancy bristled. "I do. Who does he think he is, taking my spot by your side?"

"He thinks he's the boss of everyone. And I asked him to fill that vacancy, because it's not your spot to fill, Johnny C. He's a bat, and I'm a bat, and that kind of makes us a thing."

"I could be a bat!" Clancy said, fists clenching. He dug in his heels, whirling back toward Damian. "You don't deserve her!"

"I don't want her," Damian deadpanned. "But she won't go away."

The Grey Ghost spluttered indignantly. "How could you say that about our savior, the _Lavender Rose of Gotham, the_-"

"I'm _really_ uncomfortable with where this conversation is headed, so let's wrap this thing up," Steph interjected quickly. "Clancy. Look. You're a nice guy. I understand that you want to help me, but I'm not good for you. Being around me is dangerous. People close to me get hurt. They die. If you don't go, Batman is going to kick you off the roof and then you're going to end up in the hospital with no fewer than eighteen broken bones. And hospital bills are expensive, so do yourself a solid and just walk away."

He took a moment to survey his options.

Batman cracked his knuckles.

"This isn't over," Clancy spat over his shoulder as he started powerwalking toward the fire escape. "This is _far_ from being over!"

But he left, and that was good enough for her. She was tired and exhausted and more than a little bit cranky. Her Midol had worn off hours ago.

"I'm done," she announced. "If I don't lay down, I'm going to fall down. The trail will be there to pick up tomorrow. I'm not going to spend the next five hours on a wild goose chase around the city. We don't have anything connecting the Vulture to the Fox. His place was clean."

"It won't be a wild goose chase," Damian said sourly. "You're only cranky because that charlatan thought I had any interest in you."

"Screw you. I happen to be a very interesting woman, and..."

And then, it hit her.

"Wait. Goose chase. Goose. _Chicken,"_ Steph said, her eyes widening.

Damian raised an incredulous eyebrow. She had had more than enough of that eyebrow for one night.

"Pardon me?"

"Chicken. It's the chicken!"

"Woman, have you gone mad?"

"No! Listen. I just-I get it! The Shark commits water-related crimes. We found him operating out of the shipping yard, using ships to move the Trio's product. The Vulture commits air-related crimes. We found _him_ in a high-rise warehouse, making a mint off of plane parts and putting anyone who opposed him into bird cages. So I thought to myself, well Stephanie, if you were a Fox, what kind of crimes would you commit? Chicken crimes. I would commit _chicken crimes,_ Batman."

He stared at her blankly.

"Yes, you clearly _have_ gone mad from exhaustion. Just...get back into the car. Rest. I'll finish this myself."

She grabbed his arm, fingers tightening.

"Please. I know that I'm right. I'm positive. Guys like this, they stick to their gimmick. The other two upped the gimmick factor since the last time they were seen-you saw that! Foxes raid henhouses. They steal chickens. I would bet you money that the Fox's base of operations is in a chicken packing facility, or a chicken processing plant, or something chicken-related."

He sighed, looking away. "I refuse to take that bet. I don't need money."

"Okay. Fine." She took a deep breath, calculating her odds. "Then if I'm wrong, we'll go on as many bogus calls as you want to."

That got his attention, of course. "For how long?"

Oh boy. How sure was she? Pretty sure. She was pretty sure.

"A day."

But not _super sure._

"A week."

"Three days," she countered, jabbing a finger at him. "And that's my final offer."

Damian extended his gloved hand with another sigh. "Deal." She shook his hand enthusiastically, grinning.

"To the Batmobile! We have chicken-related research to do! The Case of the Curious Chicken Caper is afoot!"

"I am never allowing you to attempt 'detectiving' _ever again,"_ Damian said as she dragged him back to the car. "And, for the record, I hate you."

* * *

><p>And he especially hated when she was <em>right.<em>

The long-since-abandoned factory that had produced Chuck's Chicken Nuggets was only four blocks away. Lights were on inside, though the sign on the gate reaffirmed the fact that the place was condemned. Upon investigation-punctuated by a fight about the true nature of the chicken nugget, which Steph swore by, though he knew that the 'nugget' was not a natural organ-they found the Fox. He had surgically altered himself-only in Gotham could someone find a plastic surgeon willing to graft a bottlebrush tail on a man.

His changes were only cosmetic, so Damian was a gentleman and allowed Stephanie to end the night with one of her infamous punches.

They found the usual accouterments of criminal black market activity-doctored shipping manifests, large stacks of non-sequential bills, a rainbow of market-ready drugs, even a delightful portable freezer that contained what Damian suspected were several human kidneys-and some of the more unusual ones as well. Apparently, chicken-related crime actually included chicken-related regalia.

I.e., a giant neon chicken sign that garishly lit up the Fox's office.

The sign was about fourteen feet tall. When lit, it cycled through an animation of the mascot, Chuck Chicken, raising a drumstick and then bringing it to his beak. Underneath his feet, the slogan _CHUCK'S CHICKEN: IT'S CLUCKING DELICIOUS_ buzzed.

"What in God's name is this doing in here?" Damian asked, aghast. "Why hasn't this _affront against good taste_ been taken to the dump?"

"The Sprang Act," Steph answered, which was just as illogical and surprising as her earlier verbal drizzle regarding chicken crimes. "Years ago, Gotham used to be known for its huge, gaudy novelty signs. They started erecting them after WWII-kind of an architectural nod to 1950s good and plenty. The skyline was covered in giant toasters, blenders, and cash registers. But then, Humpty Dumpty brought several of them down-_since that was his gimmick_-and the state senate passed the Sprang Act, which banned anything past a certain size from the tops of buildings. That's why you don't see big billboards or signs in became collectibles-Bats 1.0 has a couple of them in the cave already."

It surprised him that she knew that. He hadn't, but then again, he hadn't cared to know. Marketing and billboards were nonessential, and advertising frankly bored him. But, this _was_ a part of the city's history.

Father had thought the history important enough to preserve.

"So this..._thing_ used to be some sort of tourist bait?"

"Yeah," Stephanie said, circling the sign. "We should keep it."

Damian looked at the sign, then back to her.

"Do you hate _me?_ I don't want this in the cave. That chicken is clearly eating another chicken. That makes it a cannibal, as well as diseased."

"I think he's adorable," Steph chirped.

"And I think that you're mad, and only one of us can be right."

She lightly punched his shoulder, leaning into him as she looked up into the great and terrible face of the chicken.

"This is the first case we've busted open together as Batwoman and Batman," she said, smiling. The neon light danced off the curves of her suit and turned her hair into a luminous halo. "Don't you want some kind of memento to remember it by?"

"Bat_man_ and Bat_woman_," he amended, still looking at her instead of the poultry abomination.

Stephanie turned that electric smile on him.

And that was how Chuck the Cannibalistic Chicken came to roost beside the T-Rex in the Batcave.

* * *

><p>"Sit down and close your eyes," Stephanie said, her smile wide. It was her sly smile, her I'm-planning-something-smile, which he had learned to differentiate from her I'm-only-humoring-you-smile, and her I-smiling-but-I-want-to-punch-you-smile, and her you-made-me-happy-smile. He had to resist the urge to just turn around and leave the room before whatever the damn woman had planned could pan out.<p>

"No," he said flatly.

"Do it," she insisted.

"Absolutely not."

_"Dooooo iiiiiiiit."_

The woman wouldn't give this one up, that much was obvious. He had no other choice, unless he wanted to start a fight. A fight would take more time and energy to resolve than to cave to her whims. He sighed explosively, closing his eyes and resolving to change the Batcave's security codes again. She kept guessing them, which led to her popping in on him unannounced. Damian had gotten used to being a solitary man, and her energy was enough to overwhelm anyone sane.

"Good boy. Now hold out your hands."

_"Stephanie."_

_"Dooooooooo iiiiiiiiiiiiit."_

"I hate you, you insufferable hag," he told her, but did as he was instructed.

Not ten seconds later, something soft, warm, and slightly vibrating was placed into his cupped palms.

"Okay. Now open them."

He did, looking down at what she had given him.

It was a kitten, of all things. Even to his inexpert eye, the little fleabag was undersized, undernourished, and too tiny to be parted from its mother. It was black and white, wobbling as it tried to squirm in his hands. It was too young to retract its claws, so they caught on his calluses. It mewled piteously, its voice not much more than a squeak.

"I'm not sure what response you were hoping to elicit. You got a pet. I truly do not give a damn about your misplaced desire to care for helpless creatures."

Her _I'm-planning-something_ smile turned up its wattage.

"This isn't my kitten. This is _your_ kitten. His mother was hit by a car, so his siblings starved. But this little guy, he toughed it out and meowed until I found him. I named him Alfred, because he's an itty bitty badass."

"I don't want him," Damian said. The kitten busied himself with licking his thumb. His tiny, rough tongue rasped against his skin.

"Tough noogies. He's yours. You're going to keep him and take care of him, and if you let him die I'll put your head through a wall. _Capisce?"_

He pulled a face, repeating "I hate you," with feeling.

"He's still a baby, so you'll have to feed him by hand."

"You must be kidding."

"Balance, D. You took a life this week. Now, you're going to save his."

"A cat's life and a man's life are not comparable. And you're failing to acknowledge the _countless_ lives I've saved."

She just smiled.

"Your face," she said sweetly. "Through a wall. The end."

_"Tt."_

Stephanie obviously took this as a sign that she had won the argument.

And, really, she had.

Damian was quickly learning that women were very persuasive.

* * *

><p>Gotham never slept, never slowed down, so catching up with all of the intrigue and crime he had missed was an arduous and time-consuming process. It'd been a hotbed of crime even during the peak of his father's reign, so now that it had gone months without a Batman it was in shambles. Damian brewed a pot of tea and read, cross-referencing statistics that the computer's database automatically cached and compiled. Even with that help, it was taking him weeks to make sense of everything that had gone on.<p>

The kitten climbed up his pantsleg and settled into his lap, vibrating happily. Damian petted him absentmindedly as he read. He was getting used to the company of the furry little hellion. He wouldn't go so far as to say that he liked him, but he tolerated his company. He didn't hate him all the time, at least.

The sheer amount of data he had to assimilate was staggering. Even if he had had the empathy of a saint, there was no possible way for him to care about each and every kidnapping, rape, or murder. These people were largely faceless, reduced to statistics and medians.

Despite what the Commissioner believed, he felt that this was an appropriate stance for the Batman to take. If he bothered with caring for each loss, for each death, he would render himself useless as a crimefighter. There had to be a certain distance, a buffer. In this case, a lack of attachments was beneficial. It allowed him to carry himself with a clear head.

Caring was dangerous. To most, caring too little was a sin and a sign of sociopathy. But most were not raised al Ghul and of Wayne stock. He considered himself fortunate, _effective_-

A name jumped out at him, the association so strong that it might as well have been bolded.

_Agnes "Crystal" Bellinger-Brown, age 54_.

He scrolled down quickly, skimming the article. Murdered during a home invasion. Devoted nurse and member of the community, eighth fatality during a domestic robbery in the month of April, survived only by her daughter.

Horror bloomed in his chest.

The name of the daughter hadn't been given, but he knew. He knew, and it all clicked neatly into place.

Stephanie Brown was not living on the street because it was economical or convenient. She was not distancing herself from her family and normal life in order to be a better Batwoman. No, she did this because she had no family, no normal life, left. They had been sacrificed, but not in the way he had assumed.

Her mother had been murdered. Her mother had been murdered in their home in cold blood, likely when she was on patrol as Batwoman. Without him, she'd been the only Bat left in the city. Gotham was too much for one person to handle, much less a young woman with limited resources. She'd worn herself thin picking up the slack, and she'd paid dearly for it.

This was his fault.

She'd worried about him-risked herself for him, _saved_ him-and how had he returned the gesture? With the gift of a suit, certainly, but not with...she deserved more than that, more recompense, for doing all that she had done in his absence.

He wondered what the city would have looked like had she not stayed. He wondered if there would have been anything left at all.

Damian was ashamed of himself. He should have known. Despite her smiles and damnable quips, he should have sensed that something was wrong. _Father_ would have.

Shooing the cat off his lap, he threw on a coat and boots and turned on the tracer installed in the Compact. It blipped to life on his handheld GPS, a bright cheery yellow. He took a civilian vehicle so as not to arise suspicion, trying to suss out what he would say to her as he drove.

_I'm sorry_ was out of the question, of course.

He could have pointed out that her life held an eerie parallel to his father's, now, but she hadn't searched for his approval for a long time. Revenge had never driven her. She hadn't needed a reason to do the right thing. The impetus had been there for years, because she was one of the very few people who fought because she genuinely believed that it was the right thing to do. She was different than his father, different than him, different than even Grayson. She wore the bat symbol as an emblem of hope, not of punishment or grim justice. And even after losing everything, even after being reduced to living out of a vehicle like a vagrant, she continued to wear the emblem of the bat.

His chest felt tight. Breathing was difficult. He needed to find her-needed to see her _immediately_-needed to say-he didn't know what to say, what words could possibly make this right, but he-he couldn't _breathe._

He pulled to the side of the road and tried to calm himself down. Breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. He was having a panic attack, he realized almost giddily. He, Damian Wayne, was having a panic attack.

In through his nose, out through his mouth. It only took about ten seconds before that agonizing knot in his chest loosened and his thoughts stopped leaping and tripping ahead of him.

He knew, then, precisely what he would say to her. He reached up and adjusted the rear-view mirror calmly, then merged back into traffic.

Being an obnoxious purple van with a tracking device built into it, the Compact was not difficult to locate. He had thoroughly collected himself by the time he parked and stormed up to the car, though the state of the neighborhood she was stoked the banked coals of his anger. If she was living in her car, she could have at _least_ chosen a safer neighborhood to park in. Was she taunting the would-be hijackers, the flotsam and filth that she could undeniably handle, but should not have had to?

Damian pounded on the back window with the flat of his palm. There was no response, and he couldn't see through the heavily tinted glass. He chest began to tighten, despite his careful breathing, so he hit the window again.

This time, it rolled down partway. The upper half of Stephanie's face squinted at him beadily.

"This is unacceptable," he told her in a tone that forbade argument. He didn't waste time with small talk or greetings; he was there to get a point across, nothing more. "You cannot serve the city if you're living out of a vehicle. It's absurd."

"What is your _problem?"_ Stephanie demanded. Her hair was tangled over her shoulders, and the circles around her eyes were dark and pearlescent from exhaustion. A livid bruise smeared over her right cheek, where her resistant cowl didn't cover her face. He had obviously woken her up just after she'd turned in for the night. He couldn't even fathom how uncomfortable sleeping in the back of a van for six months had to be, and something that may have been guilt tugged at him.

"My problem is that you are one of the few individuals fit to continue my father's work. Therefore, I'll grant you use of his property for so long as you serve Gotham."

_"What?"_

Stupid woman.

"You can live with me," Damian ground out. "The Manor has _25,000_ square feet. There's no need for us even see each other, much less share space." After a breath that hung like cotton on the frosty air, he added, "I absolutely will not take no for an answer."

"Really." Stephanie's brow knit. "I don't need charity, little Mr. Wayne. Thanks, but no thanks."

Then, she frowned and rolled the window back up.

Damian swore wrathfully under his breath, smacking the window with enough force to rattle it in its frame.

"It isn't _charity,_ you vapid twat!"

Well, if she was going to be stubborn about it, she would find that he was capable of being a hundred times more stubborn. Fishing his tracker out of his pocket again, he punched in the override code.

The Compact's engine roared to life. He programmed in the route to the manor, and then announced to the closed window, loudly, "You're being completely unreasonable, Stephanie. Live in the car for all I care, but it will be parked in my garage. It is Wayne property and I am collecting it whether you like it or not!"

By the time that their little entourage got back to the cave, she'd brushed her hair out and braided it back. She seemed tired and angry, but he didn't care. Better that she think herself the prisoner of a self-important brat than freeze to death on the street. Damian was used to and comfortable with being hated by others.

He couldn't stand by and allow one of his family members to live like that. She deserved better. He'd shove _better_ down her proud, idiotic throat if he had to. She was the only one that had willingly carried on his father's work, the only one that had stayed. He would repay that loyalty, if he could. If she would let him.

"I'm going back to bed," Stephanie told him with a long yawn, but she started walking toward the elevator to the manor, not back to the Compact.

The knot in his chest disappeared, finally.


	3. Chapter 3

The monster wouldn't stop crying. He'd done everything-_everything_ he could have possibly wanted-but he wouldn't stop meowing. It wasn't just one meow every so often, either: the kitten followed him through the cave, trailing a steady stream of high, frantic squeaks.

Damian picked Alfred up by his scruff, scowling.

"What the hell do you want from me? You've been fed. You have a blanket. You're living a privileged life, you ungrateful feline."

"Damian!" Stephanie's voice could just _ring_ through the cave when she wanted it to. He grit his teeth. "Are you abusing your furry child again?"

"Of course I'm no-_my furry child?_ Do you even listen to the things that come out of your mouth, woman?"

"But he _is_ just a baby," Steph chirped, taking the cat from him.

The traitorous wretch arched against her neck, rubbing against her and purring and allowing himself to be held.

"That cat is determined to make a liar of me."

"No," she said with a laugh as the kitten wriggled and purred. "You just need to give him a little more honey and a little less vinegar. Cats don't like it when you yell at them."

"I do not yell at him."

"Really? Do you even listen to the things that come out of your mouth? It's a miracle that Alfie doesn't think that his name is Twice-Damned Harlot."

He'd gotten out practice when it came to living with others. Living with Father and Grayson and Pennyworth had spoiled him, so the transition to being alone once more had been rocky. He talked to the air sometimes, to things that he didn't expect to reply to him. He'd talked to the stars above the ruins at Karnak, to the almost feminine curves of the Cotswolds, to the sea of clouds on Huangshan. It'd become habit, in the year he'd spent wandering, a necessary conversation. It'd kept the loneliness he'd refused to acknowledge at bay.

But now, Stephanie was there to catch him and comment on his behavior.

She'd taken to calling him a crazy cat lady.

He _really_ hated that.

"He needs to learn to use his words, doesn't he?" She asked the cat, scratching his ear.

"Oh," he scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest and using his considerable height to really look down his nose at her. "So it's acceptable when you talk to him, but not when I do it?"

"Tone, D. It's all about the tone that you use." Stephanie gave his head a final pet, then handed Alfred back to him. "Everyone likes to be sweet-talked."

"Take care of the cat, you say. Feed the cat by hand, you say. Sweet-talk the cat, you say. One of these days, you're going to realize how outrageous your demands really are," he groused, though he kept his voice even. Alfred continued to purr, tucked against his neck and shoulder.

"Maybe," she said, with a you-make-me-happy-smile. "Or maybe you'll realize that I've been teaching you important life lessons all these months."

"So you're my mentor now, are you? Finally, you're doing something befitting of your _advancing years!"_

He hit the volume level that switched Alfred from rumbling warm ball of fur to a vicious entity made entirely of claws. He exercised his vast lexicon of swear words as the cat dug into his chest, yowling.

And Stephanie just laughed.

* * *

><p>Damian hadn't thought his decision to let Stephanie stay with him through. He hadn't taken the time to weigh the pros and cons or imagine what living with her would be like. He'd been panicked, fueled by adrenaline and the foolish need to make up for what she had lost. Had he been in his right mind, he would have established rules and boundaries before he'd let her in the door.<p>

But, as always, hindsight was 20/20.

It wasn't that he'd never shared space before, either. True, he'd always had his own room, but Grayson had believed that 'do not disturb me' had been a suggestion, not a warning, and Pennyworth did not conform to the schedules and whims of others. No, Alfred Pennyworth had been the one _setting_ schedules, and adopting his ways was easier than trying to break his habits. Damian understood that living with others was a give and take, and that compromises were necessary.

But living with a woman was different, because women were fascinatingly and infuriatingly _weird._

Women required upkeep that he hadn't thought about before. She shaved her legs religiously, though he hadn't strictly seen the need to do so- her suit covered her legs, so it wasn't as if the negligible air drag of un-smooth legs was a problem she had to concern herself with. He watched her put on makeup once, and found himself embarrassingly captivated by the process. It was clearly a ritual-even if she didn't recognize it as such and told him he was being "a psycho creep" again when he pointed it out-and she carried herself differently those rare times that she wore the facepaint of the 21st century woman warrior. He preferred her without it, but couldn't stop staring at her when she had it on.

It was a subtle, effective mask, worn for different reasons. Grayson nor his father couldn't have hoped to explain it to him.

It made him feel like a child, just a little. He couldn't stop himself from asking _why_ sometimes: why are you doing that, why is that important to you, why would you waste your time and resources, what does this accomplish?

The worst part about living with a woman was that it was Stephanie, and he didn't like to be continually reminded that _she_ was a woman. He could divorce himself from the notion that she was something soft when they patrolled together, but then they'd come back to the manor and she would change into a tank-top and shorts and he'd remember that she was a woman all over again.

And it wasn't that he disliked women. In fact, that was the problem right there: he hadn't taken the time to care before, and her continued presence reaffirmed this growing, troublesome _like_ of all the things that made a woman different from a man. He'd fumbled around an explanation to that end, which had made her burst into laughter and tell him that finally, _finally_ his balls had dropped.

No, the physical components of adult maturity had hit him early on. Damian, as self-possessed and controlling as ever, had simply denied himself to entertain the mental aspects of it all.

Because those thoughts, those attractions, had a way of getting away from him.

For his own sanity, he kept his thoughts in the abstract. He liked the womanhood that Stephanie represented, the things that appealed to him on a visceral level. The abstracts, the concepts. Not _her_ in particular.

He liked what she was, what she represented. Damian had always been attracted to strong women, but that had been purely cerebral. He'd been taught to seek equals, so he'd decided early on that a warrior of his calibre was his only clean match. That was his mother's tutelage speaking, which hadn't ever concerned itself with base things like physical attraction. The things that he was categorizing now, the things that he was _discovering_ about himself, were the things that he-that made him-

The things that made his stomach flutter and his heart palpitate, the things that caused his palms to sweat and made something inside inside him say _yes, this. I like_ this.

Deep in his embarrassing thoughts, he _liked_ that Stephanie wasn't built like most of the girls he saw in the street, be them on the corners or on the billboards. It was in vogue to be thin, arms and legs like twigs, pointed breasts and sharp hips meeting in a waspish waist. They looked fragile to him, like children or little boys. It did nothing for him.

But Stephanie was built like anyone else who had survived his father's training regiment: solid and healthy. She had heavy breasts and a little bit of softness in her belly that she had to suck in when she zipped up her suit. She never had to ask for things to be lifted for her, and the tension in the muscles of her thighs when she crouched made his mouth go completely dry. She was not a girl, and hadn't been for some time. She was a woman, and one of healthy stock.

Lord. _Healthy stock._ Like he was mentally comparing her to a prize horse.

What would Stephanie think, if she could hear his thoughts on the fairer sex?

But then it hit him, with startling clarity, that Stephanie would laugh. She would think that it was funny that he thought of her in barbaric terms, because she was a confident woman who knew better than to think that she would ever be an object to a man. Maybe once upon a time, when she was young and needy and desperate for the approval her father-and _his_ father-had never given her, but she was no longer a child.

And he liked that.

Sometimes, he had trouble thinking of her as an ideal or abstract. Sometimes, he found himself just thinking about _her._

He knew that line of thinking was both dangerous and _stupid._ If he ever chose to pursue...romantic endeavors, it would have to be with someone that saw him as a man, not a child. A woman who respected him as Batman, and who didn't remind him that she'd known him since he'd been a round-cheeked boy. Even if he wanted to-and he didn't, he was certain that he didn't-it wouldn't happen.

Stephanie was a woman, and in her eyes he was not her equal. She would not want him, even if he wanted her (and he didn't; he just liked looking at her and he liked that the cat liked her and he liked that she had slapped his father, once).

It'd frustrated him, so he'd fallen back on old habits. They didn't fight together every night, since they were both capable of working alone and so much distance needed to be covered. When the question of _together or apart_ came up every evening, he found himself choosing _apart_ more and more often. It was a selfish decision, a childish one.

And it almost cost him everything.

* * *

><p>When he'd been a child-or at least <em>young<em>-he had wanted to carve out that space at Batman's side. He'd wanted to be his true son, his heir, the one to inherit it all. The money, the name, the glory, the recognition. He'd more than replaced Tim as Robin-he'd surpassed him in every imaginable way, despite not being Bruce Wayne's chosen son.

And now he had it all. All the things that Drake had either given up or passed over, the things that he liked to believe that he'd won fairly. The cave, the legacy, the accouterment. _Her._

He had it all. All of his hopes and dreams.

But the cave had too many suits in glass cases, now, and he was half terrified that he would be adding another display case soon.

He'd planted the tracking chip in her suit upgrades, a basic system that monitored her vital signs. It wasn't an elegant thing-just the bare minimum, a way for him to ensure that he would be notified if she ever needed to be saved. In everything, Damian cheated. He didn't have the sense and timing of his predecessors-Father had always _known_ when he was needed, he believed, but then again his memories of the man were illuminated and elevated-so he relied on tech instead.

Gotham being Gotham and Stephanie being Stephanie, it was merely a matter of time before the alarm went off. It surprised him when it did, nonetheless.

There were three levels of alarm. The green one went off if she left city limits, since they'd established that neither would leave without telling the other first. If it went off, it meant that she'd been kidnapped. The yellow one went off if there was a sudden pressure change in the suit, which meant that she was either up high or down deep. If it went off, it meant that she was getting in over her head one way or another. The red one went off if her vital signs were fluctuating.

If it went off, it meant that she was dying.

That glowing red light punched the air from his lungs. The next fifteen minutes were a half-remembered blur of action. He found her in a meatpacking facility, neutralized the men beating her to death-so many of them, so many steel-toed boots coming down again and _again_-and carried her back to the cave. He'd stripped her down and tried to make sense of what had been ruptured and broken amid all the blood that filled the suit. The suit had saved her, but only just.

Later, Damian couldn't remember if he'd crippled the men or killed them. It hadn't mattered to him, not then. Saving her was all that had motivated him, and he'd been too furious to think, to breathe, to hold himself back. For everything that they'd done to her, he wanted to pay those bastards back double. If they were crippled, _good._ If they died, _better_. So long as he didn't know either way, he could not be blamed.

It was touch and go for a while. He wasn't the surgeon that Pennyworth had been, but he'd sufficed. The blood supply on hand hadn't been enough; he hadn't kept the stock fresh ever since his deal, since the day that he'd stopped needing the miracles of modern science. Thankfully, their blood types were compatible and draining himself nearly dry wouldn't kill him. Nothing would.

Her right forearm was broken, already set neatly in a cast. She'd sustained spiral fractures of radius and ulna, which told its own story. Greenstick fractures and compound fractures were more usual; spiral fractures only happened when the bones were _twisted._ He could see, in his mind's eye, how it'd happened: she'd been grabbed, and she'd fought. Probably tried to kick, knowing her-and her assailant had wrenched her back like a ragdoll.

Twisting. Snapping.

He swore under his breath, moving to her bedside with the kind of slow caution he usually reserved for casing a warehouse packed with thugs. He dropped into a chair beside her bed. Stephanie made soft, semi-conscious noises of pain whenever she shifted, but the drugs took affect and she went still.

Too still for his liking. He dragged his chair closer and curled his fingers against the side of her throat. He kept his touch light, but he could still monitor her pulse and breathing rate. He didn't trust the equipment she was hooked up to, not right at that moment. Damian needed to feel the cycles for himself.

The transfusion had stabilized her, the emergency surgery saved her. All the readouts and soft beeping machines told him this, but he couldn't leave her alone. He was too afraid that the situation would turn if he didn't keep watch. Her life had fallen apart in his absence, so he was unwilling to give up control again. He knew that the thought was an irrational one, but he couldn't stifle it.

Damian lingered in her room for hours after she fell asleep. He wasn't worried about accidentally waking her-he _was_ Batman; he could certainly exit a room without waking a drugged up girl. He just...wasn't terribly inclined to move. He scrutinized Stephanie, frowning without realizing he was doing it.

She was pale from blood loss, her mouth hanging slack. He took her in, Eidetic memory clicking an image that he would not forget. Her nail polish-purple, of course-was chipped. There were a rainbow of bruises on her forearms, fresh violet ones mottled with slowly healing yellowed ones. She hadn't been exaggerating when she'd said she never left the street anymore-the scars of it were spread over her body. He was fascinated by the fine golden hair on her arms, the softness of her skin, the way he could see how the fight had marked her. Between his mother's ministrations and his deal, he'd never scarred.

Damian felt dizzy, though he knew for fact that his body had already replaced the blood that he'd given her. His hands skipped lightly over the bedspread, finding a tangle in her long hair and absentmindedly teasing it apart. He curled the smooth hank of hair over his finger, closing his eyes and smelling it.

He _knew_ that they used the same shampoo, since she technically just stole his. How was it that she smelled different-smelled good? Women were soft. Damian had never been very close to them before, and was only now realizing that they were _different._ He'd never cared, dismissing the fairer sex to be the weaker and therefore less interesting one. His mother was an exception to that categorization, but she had not been what anyone would call a hands-on mother. He'd been eight years old before they were formally introduced. Touches had been rare. Instead of being a template for womankind for him, she had been sexless. He'd known that other mothers were different, but he had assured himself that his was superior. _Powerful._

It was late in life to be learning what a real woman was, but Damian was a quick study when he put his mind to a subject.

"You gonna jus'...sit there and sniff me like a creeper?"

Even though it was a reedy, wandering mumble, Steph's voice startled him out of his thoughts. He blinked rapidly, straightening.

"I wasn't sure if you were _breathing,_ you insipid cow," Damian snapped, moving his hand away and putting a comfortable distance between them again. He busied himself with repacking medical supplies, scowling.

The corner of her mouth turned upwards in a faint, exhausted smirk.

"You came to save me...? _Huh._ We're even."

"Hardly. You've suffered massive blood loss. You nearly died."

"Man." She breathed in, closing her eyes. "Should've been Catwoman. That...that has to be the fifth life I've gone through."

_"Tt._ You're graceless and guileless. You're more apt to be _Manateewoman."_

Steph tried to laugh, but agony twisted up her face and she whimpered instead.

"Broken...?"

"Three ribs, as well as your right arm," he deadpanned. "Go back to sleep. You're burning through your painkillers unnecessarily."

Damian shut the supply box with a businesslike snap, taking her slight bobbing nod as a sign of her agreement. He turned to the door, but not before she reached out her left hand and fisted her fingers in his sleeve. He could have easily pulled away, but it must have taken Herculean effort for her to move in her condition, so he allowed her the touch.

"Thanks, Dami."

He didn't know how to reply to that-sincerity prickled him, begging for reciprocation-so he just nodded curtly.

Her eyes slid shut again, fingers loosening.

He extricated himself, sat, and continued his vigil until dawn.

* * *

><p>The next time she came to, Damian was still sitting in the chair beside her bed. Judging by the angle of sunlight coming in through the blinds, she'd been out for a while. A <em>long<em> while. It was sunset, and she'd been jumped barely past eleven o'clock. For all she knew, this wasn't the first sunset that she'd slept through.

"Whumma," Steph croaked, licking her parched lips. He zeroed in on her with those too-blue eyes of his, standing up and moving closer. "Wa...?"

Wordlessly, he held a cup of water with a straw for her, helping her drink.

"Better?"

She nodded.

"You have either the worst luck or the best luck I've ever seen," Damian said, sounding tired and cross. "You were shot clean through the abdomen, but by some miracle your bowels weren't perforated and your abdominal aorta was missed. With the beating you received and the state of your ribs, I'm shocked that you didn't end up with flail chest."

Flail chest? Her head felt fuzzy, opiates taking the edge off. There'd been a lot of flailing. She remembered that much-remembered being picked up, shaken, thrown, hit, kicked. Spat on.

She wrinkled her nose. Another day at the office in Gotham, pretty much.

"What _happened_ to you, Stephanie?" Damian growled, suddenly sounding like a ten year old boy again. Arrogant, demanding, scared.

He looked worried. Really, honestly worried. Geeze, that must have meant that she'd been pretty bad off when he'd found her. Maybe it'd been a good thing that she'd lost consciousness.

"Would you believe a _gang war...?"_ She wheezed a thin laugh. "But I didn't start this one. Scout's honor."

He didn't think that the joke was very funny, obviously.

"You should've called me," he said angrily, hands balling into fists. "I could have prevented this."

"I didn't think it'd be this bad," Steph said. She tried to shake her head, but that was too much movement. "'Sides, you were busy..."

"Not too busy for this," Damian said between clenched teeth. "I am not my father. I will not sacrifice the people who fight under me. You are _not expendable._ I cannot replace you."

Her shock must have shown on her face, because he quickly followed that with, "Because nobody has your training, and I have neither the time nor the resources to invest in raising a Robin."

She smiled sluggishly, though it made her bruised face ache. "And here I thought you haven't been listening."

"What?" He asked, still rigid and indignant.

"Sweet-talk," she rasped, her painful smile widening. "You're gettin' the hang of it."

"You're benched until further notice. Maybe _you'll_ learn to be more careful," he grumbled, sitting back down and leaning his elbows on the bed. "You're not fit for conversation. Go back to sleep, you twice-damned harlot."

She let herself relax and catch the next gentle swell of medication. She heard the scrape of chair legs on tile as he scooted closer, his warm hand resting against her pulse. She dropped off feeling safe.

Stephanie left the twelve-hour critical window safely. She hadn't fallen or spiked in hours, so he knew that he could leave her for a little bit. Not for long, and not without syncing his cowl to her biosignature readout, but he needed space.

Damian's hands wouldn't stop shaking. Bile soured in the back of his throat. He needed _answers._ He needed to know how this had happened, who had done it, who to blame.

Barring that, he needed to find something to put his fist through.

* * *

><p>It was a beautiful night in Gotham City. Cold and clear, the November air sang with the promise of snow. A smattering of stars were visible even through the light pollution, the streets were clogged with shoppers gearing up for the coming holidays, and Batman was dangling a man over the side of a building with every intention of letting him go.<p>

"Give me one reason why I should let you live," Batman snarled. "Just one. One convincing argument, you piece of _filth."_

Clancy's face was beet-red and sweaty; he was hyperventilating.

"B-B-" he swallowed, fumbling with his fat, stupid tongue. "Batman doesn't kill?"

"I told you to make a _convincing_ argument. Try again."

"I don't-I don't know what you're talking about, man," Clancy said, holding desperately to his arm. Damian had his hand fisted in his shirtfront and was dangling him over a fifteen-storey drop. The headlights far below were reduced to dimly twinkling pinpricks, as seemingly distant as the stars above. The cool night wind rustled Damian's cloak and lifted Clancy's sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. "You said back off, I backed off!"

_"Tt._ Men like you don't give up compulsive behavior that quickly. I've been monitoring you for weeks. Do you think that I don't know when I'm being followed, _Clancy?_ I chose not to address the issue, because normally you aren't worth my time. But I know, and you know, that you saw something last night."

The truth of it was, Damian wasn't sure that he had seen anything. Maybe he really had given up the Grey Ghost and stopped stalking Stephanie. Maybe he'd even feel a little bit bad if he ended up dropping him. Maybe.

"I didn't, I-I-"

_"TELL ME!"_ Damian roared, using _his_ voice. _"I KNOW YOU FOLLOWED HER, YOU FUCKING COWARD!"_

"I'm _SORRY!"_ Clancy wailed, legs kicking wildly. "I was going to-it was just a couple thugs, just-four, maybe five guys, but one of them had a stun stick. I was helping her, and the guy with the stun stick had this collar, and it-it went off like a siren. They all came, all of them, and I couldn't fight that many guys-n-not even for her. The King was there, man, _I didn't want to die!"_

Clancy Johnson was a troubled man, but a relatively normal one. He had some training and some tech, but his sense of self-preservation was too strong to make him a bat. He'd done what any sane man would have, under the circumstances. He'd left her and ran.

"You _should_ have."

Batman swung him over to solid ground again, dropping him in a graceless heap.

"We're done here. I will only say this once, so listen well. If I ever see you again-if I even _think_ that I see you-I will bring you back here and I will drop you. If, by some bizarre twist of fate, you survive the fall, I will gather up your broken body and I will drop you again. And if I hear that you have told anyone what happened here tonight, I will feed you to the King myself. Now, _go_. Go, and live out the rest of your miserable little life."

He could smell the sharp, hot scent of urine; Clancy scrambled to get away from him as quickly as possible, not even fully standing before he lurched away.

Batman adjusted his gloves, then made his way to the sewer.

* * *

><p>Waylon Jones wasn't one of the ones that had made his fight against the Bats a personal one. To him, the man-<em>thing<em> known as Killer Croc, it'd all been the natural order of things. He hadn't killed because he had a score to settle-not all the time, at least. Sometimes, he killed because he was hungry. Sometimes, he killed to inspire fear and to make all the other mob bosses clear the watering hole. Sometimes, he killed just because he _liked_ it, because he _could_.

He was higher up on the food chain, and he never let Gotham forget that. He hadn't needed to change when the Bat left his belfry, hadn't felt compelled to switch up his act. No, he'd just gotten bigger, and meaner, and hungrier.

The nature of the beast is to escalate, and the King Croc had earned his crown by feasting.

The smell burned his nostrils when he inhaled, so strong that he could taste it. It was utterly rank, enough to make even _him_ want to gag. He didn't, though, because he _was him_, but the urge was still there.

To find his nest, Damian had only to follow the rats. Croc had gotten bolder, embracing his bestial nature because it'd been the only thing in his life to do right by him. So, the bits and chunks he left behind were as much negligence as they were a warning to other predators.

_This is what will happen to you,_ said the bloated, half-consumed remains of a naked man. _Turn around,_ said the lower half of a woman, nothing but a severed spine, hips, and one pretty leg. _Long live King Croc,_ said the pile of dead and dying things and refuse that the massive, scaly monster reclined on like a throne.

But Damian was every bit the predator that the King was. He just didn't feel the need to prove it by eating flesh.

Croc's eyes were slightly luminous in the low light, reflecting an eerie green. He blinked one eye, then the other, and took a deep breath.

"Not the Bat," he rumbled, though he sounded more amused than disappointed.

"Yes and no," Damian said, in his own voice. "Better that you think of me as not, as I'm not here to represent the Batman. Not tonight."

Croc gave a laugh that sounded like wet leather slapping on aluminum siding.

"Let me guess. The _giiiiiiirlllll."_

"Yes," said Damian, and detached his cape. It half floated, half sunk into the fetid murk. "The girl."

"You bats, you's _easy._ Take a crowbar to one'a ya, and you all get your feathers ruffled. What's it gonna be, kid? Arkham? _HA!"_

"No, Jones. Batman would have put you in Arkham." He waded into the deeper water. "I'm not Batman."

Croc rolled over. He slid into the water with a gravelly snarl and his eyes disappeared.

Damian had no desire to make this anything but efficient. He found a length of barbed wire spooled around a half-submerged length of city fence; one good yank pulled it free.

When Croc emerged, teeth-first, he was ready. The once-man was twice his height and three times his weight; the math wasn't in his favor, but Damian was a cheater.

Grayson was the one who'd taught him the maneuver that flipped him out of the way and onto Croc's shoulders, but the barbed wire garrote that he wrapped around his thick throat was of his own styling. He stomped between his shoulderblades, _hard_, and felt something crack.

Croc bellowed until he wrapped the wire around both of his fists, shortening the slack and tightening the noose. The muscles in his arms stood out in hard bands as he pulled, and pulled, and _pulled_.

"Batman would put you in jail, Jones, but I'm not that _kind,"_ he hissed as the wire disappeared into his flesh and Croc gurgled. "I swore not to take human life, but you are nowhere near human. You are a monster, and that makes you free game as far as I'm concerned. I hope that your friends will see you and know that trying to make a point _will not work with me._ A crowbar isn't as effective as it used to be."

Croc fell forward. He didn't move.

Damian retrieved his cape, shaking it out briskly before putting it back on.

_The King is dead,_ said the corpse of Waylon Jones. _Long live the Bat._

* * *

><p>"I'd never realized it takes so long for a body to heal," Damian said, sounding bored. "I find myself wondering if you're doing this on purpose, to try my patience."<p>

"Oh, right," Steph said, rolling her eyes. "Because hobbling around for three months and having trouble peeing by myself is totally worth the time off work!"

He made a grumbling noise at the mention of bodily functions, even though he'd been the one to help her from the bed to the bathroom those first couple of weeks. Honestly, Steph was healing remarkably quickly, in no small part due to her inborn stubbornness. She pushed herself harder than any physical therapist would have, because she seriously did not know the meaning of giving up. It never even cropped up as an option, not in her curiously-wired brain.

The weeks she'd spent healing could have been worse. She'd assumed that Damian would have told her to deal with it herself, not having the patience to coddle someone who took the slow lane on the highway to health and happiness. To him, if something broke, you just replaced it. When the Flamingo had put a half dozen bullets in his spine, paralyzing him, his mother had taken him home and given him a new one. He came from a world where body parts were switched out as easily and readily as car parts.

When he'd told her that, Steph had laughed for three straight minutes. Then she'd realized he wasn't joking, and it'd been really awkward for them both.

Ever since his mother had replaced _him_ with a less quarrelsome new sibling, extreme operation hadn't been an option. Even if ringing up Mommy al Ghul for a couple spare ribs had been an option, Steph wouldn't have taken it. She just wasn't that kind of person.

So, healing took time. It was hard, and it was painful, and it meant a fresh batch of scars, but she lived for the tiny triumphs. She was up and walking in ten days, though she couldn't laugh or cough or bend over. She mastered left-handed eating and Wayne-slapping in half that time. Her cast came off after six weeks, and her right arm was starting to get back to normal usage. Steph still ached sometimes, and got winded every once in a while, but it wouldn't be much longer before she'd be back to kicking faces in.

She'd expected Damian to be short with her, uncooperative. She'd been rendered useless as a partner, and no manner of sneering or glaring at her could get her to heal faster.

But he'd surprised her.

Like, _a lot._

He'd still patrolled nightly, but he'd checked in every couple of hours. He'd always made sure that she had the basic necessities, whether that meant making them available to her or-_gasp_-getting them himself. He'd helped her wash her hair, though he'd groused about the length of it and threatened to shave it when she was sleeping. He even got her movies to watch when she was doped up and miserable, though he had strong opinions on why everything about Disney movies was wrong.

He'd been good to her, in his own way. She'd gotten to know him, _really_ know him, and surprised herself at how easy he was to read once you knew his tells.

For example, Steph could tell when Damian was working himself up to say something. She'd usually catch him muttering to himself, or to the cat, and actively avoiding her. He was all about choosing the right timing and controlling to flow of a conversation he wasn't confident about, so she'd learned to give him room and let him come to her.

"Lucius has been giving me hell," he started off, sounding loftily annoyed-but speaking more quickly than he usually did. "I almost resent my father's public legacy, since it causes me no shortage of grief."

"Boo hoo," Steph laughed, scraping the bottom of her cup of yogurt with her spoon. "Being a rich, spoiled brat is _sooooo_ hard."

"Yes, but." His blue eyes flicked away briefly, then back to her. "I've outgrown the age where being _just_ a rich, spoiled brat is acceptable. Apparently, I've been nominated as one of Gotham's most eligible young bachelors. No one thought to inform me of this development."

She licked the back of the spoon, cleaning off any delicious blueberry goodness.

"Ahh. I see how it is. Lucius wants you to get your playboy groove on."

"For lack of a more tasteful description, yes. He's all but demanded that I be seen with a woman at _Le Nuit_ next thought of entertaining some vacuous girl who only wants to discuss her clothing and the nuances of _Glee_ makes me physically ill, so _you_ are coming with me."

Steph almost choked on her spoon.

_"What?"_

"I'm not interested in shallow little socialites. What will I talk to them about? The only neutral territory of my interests is the cat, and I can only talk about that hellbeast for so long. My only alternative would be to let one of them control the conversation for an entire evening, and I can promise you that _blood would be shed."_

Okay. So he wanted her to be his beard, since he hated 98% of humanity and could probably be described as batsexual. Most girls would jump at the chance to go to a fancy restaurant with a billionaire footing the bill, but Steph...

She knew where her Stephcialties lie. And high society was _not her Stephciality._

"I don't own a dress," she said slowly, scraping the bottom of her yogurt cup again. Anything to keep her hands busy.

He propped his chin on his hand, giving her a dissecting look.

"I know. You own two pairs of jeans and a handful of ratty shirts, all of which should be burned. I can arrange for something for the night."

"I've never been to a super fancy place."

"It doesn't take any great skill to sit and eat food, Stephanie. You like to eat. That much is _obvious."_

Aaand there was the fat joke. No conversation with Damian was complete without one. She huffed a sigh.

_"Fine._ But only this once, because I owe you. Next time, you find another Batbeard."

He frowned, but nodded.

"Good. Dinner will be on Saturday, at eight. The reservation has already been set."

Later, she wondered if he'd gotten the idea from Beauty and the Beast.

* * *

><p>The dress appeared in her room on Saturday afternoon, folded in a long white box and joined by a note that said <em>This should suffice.<em>

If there was one thing positive about Damian, it was that he had incredible taste. The dress was beautiful: an empire waist and tiered skirt of plum silk and chiffon, a deep _v_ of a neckline and a daringly low scooped back. Steph spread the dress out in her lap, the diaphanous material looking almost like ripples of water. Tiny beads caught the light and winked at her.

It was beautiful, but the thought of wearing it made her suddenly sick to her stomach. It'd show her chest, arms, and back. It'd show _everything_-all the wounds and scars, old and new. She didn't regret any of them, not when being Batwoman was the one thing she felt she'd done right with her life. But, normal women didn't look the way she did. She could try to cover up what she could with makeup, but she didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of looking like the kind of woman the son of a billionaire industrialist should have hanging off his arm.

He should have gotten something with sleeves and a full back, she thought, feeling helpless. But she couldn't turn him down or say that the dress was anything _but_ beautiful. And it was just one evening. She _regularly_ survived harrowing situations, so she could tough this one out. The Wayne PR machine needed some oiling, and he owed that much to him for taking care of her.

She got dressed early, taking her time. Steph curled her hair and put on make-up. She couldn't help but grin at the fact that there were a pair of matching heels in her closet. The note with them read _Just don't break anything._

Steph did have to practice walking the length of her room a couple of times. It'd been a while since she'd worn heels.

But it turned out that Bat-training pretty much prepares you for anything, even walking in four-inch stilettos. She took comfort in the fact that she could slip them off and fight crime with them if need be.

Deciding that this was as good as it was going to get, she joined Damian in the garage.

If a suit made a man, the suit he was wearing made him a stranger. The cut emphasized his broad shoulders, the sunny yellow tie the only splash of color between the black silk of the suit and his neatly combed black hair. He was adjusting his cufflinks, but he looked up at the sound of her heels on the cement.

"You look..." Damian said, trailing off. He couldn't finish the thought.

_Wow,_ she thought sourly. _That bad? He can't find anything nice to say at all? _

_"Acceptable,"_ she finished for him, mimicking his usual flat drawl. He rolled his eyes.

"Yes. You-yes. Acceptable. Almost." He reached into his breast pocket, taking out a string of pearls. She could tell just by looking at them that they were very old. "I never met my grandmother, obvious, so I have no emotional attachment to the things that Martha Wayne left behind. Most of it was given away or auctioned off to charity, but Father insisted on keeping these. There are no women in the family to appreciate gaudy little things, so I thought that you-you might appreciate them instead."

And that? That, Steph didn't know how to react to.

"Allow me," he said, and she carded her loose curls to the side so that he could clasp the necklace. The light graze of his fingertips at the nape of her neck made her stomach do flips worthy of Dick Grayson.

_Whoa, girl. Reality check. This is Damian Friggin' Wayne, the guy who tells you that shaving is illogical and calls you _and_ the cat twice-damned harlots. He might be all cleaned up, but he's still the Littlest Psychobat. Back, hormones. Back to the pit whence you came._

_"Now_ you are acceptable," Damian said, sounding pleased with himself.

She traced the cool, even ridges of the pearls. It was a long string, hanging between her breasts even though he'd looped it twice.

"Really pulling out the stops, aren't you?"

"Doing things halfway is not in my nature," he said, straightening his tie. "The paparazzi will find themselves marvelously convinced. Come on, I don't want to be late."

* * *

><p>Steph was horrified to find that there was no twelve-and-under portion of the menu. In fact, the menu was missing a <em>lot<em> of things, like pictures and prices and _English._

"I don't speak French," she hissed over the top of the menu. "All I know is to stay away from _escargot."_

"Your loss," Damian said with a negligent shrug. "They're known for their _Escargots à la Bourguignonne_."

"Do you know why the menu is in French? Because nobody in their right mind would order the Snails in Garlic Butter."

She'd known that fine dining was a little out of her league, but Steph hadn't realized exactly how far. The menu was in French because it was just assumed that the people who ate there were cultured enough to be multilingual. They'd all finished high school. The menu had no prices because it was just assumed that the people who ate there could shell out for just about anything their hearts desired. They'd never eaten peanut butter and Eggo waffles for three weeks solid because that was all that they could afford. The menu had no twelve-and-under section because it was just assumed that the people who ate there had nannies. They'd never zeroed in on the kid's section of a menu because eating out was a luxury, and the cheaper, smaller portions stretched a buck further.

Steph was having a tiny little panic attack. Why had she agreed to this again? One wrong move and this would go from 'positive Wayne facetime' to 'front page humiliation'.

When the waiter came over and asked if they would like some wine, she could have hugged him. Really, she could have.

But ordering wine was a drawn out process, it turned out. Damian took the wine list from the waiter before she could reach for it-she only _barely_ kept herself from blurting out _Uh, excuse me, you can't legally be served alcohol and I need that way more than you do_.

"What vintage is the Château d'Yquem?" Damian asked, his French as fluid as if it'd been his native language.

"A 1992, sir. An excellent year, if I do say so myself. Would you like to sample it?"

"Mm," he said, and the waiter poured a couple swallows' worth into his glass.

Damian held the stem of the wine glass delicately, holding it up to the light. It looked like he was expertly swirling a glass full of gold. She'd never seen a white wine that richly colored.

But then again, the wine Mom and her had always drank had come from cardboard boxes with plastic spigots. Safeway had always been a solid vintage.

He sniffed the wine thoughtfully, then took a sip.

And then he spit it out in the bucket the waiter was carrying. This, apparently, was proper conduct-the waiter didn't bat an eye.

Nothing made sense.

_Nothing._

"The 1992 Château d'Yquem, you said?" Damian asked, still scrutinizing what was left in his glass.

"Yes, Monsieur Wayne. Is it to your taste?"

Steph swore that she could hear the _tt_ that he wanted to make, but didn't.

"Mm," he repeated, blandly. The waiter took this as a yes-she suspected that complete indifference was the approval of the very rich-and nodded.

"I'll fetch you the bottle, sir," he said, taking the barely-used glass.

There were more pieces of china and cutlery at her setting than had ever been on her mother's table, even when it'd been the two of them eating together. There was a bowl, a large plate, a little plate, an even _littler_ plate, three crystal glasses of differing sizes, three forks, two knives, and three spoons. _Just_ for her.

Oh, god. There were choices. There were so many choices, and she had no idea which one to use. Steph had been less nervous when faced with bombs that needed defusing. Picking between the red wire or the green wire was _nothing_ compared to the fork dilemma. If she cut the wrong wire, she didn't have to live with the knowledge and shame.

And she couldn't ask Damian. She knew that she couldn't. It'd embarrass him in front of the waiter.

She picked up the fork closest to her plate with her right hand, careful to wrap her fingers around it. She'd been out of the cast for a month, but that didn't mean the healing process was over. Even with daily physical therapy-and all the stubborn dedication she was famous for-the muscles were weak and stiff.

The fork dropped, clattering loudly on her plate.

The waiter gave her a pointed _look_, then a thin smile. "Ah, madame, that is not your salad fork. That is your dessert fork."

Why would they put the dessert fork _closest_ to the plate? Dessert came _last._

With the way her face was burning, she was sure that she was red and blotchy from embarrassment from her chest to the tips of her ears.

"With what I'm paying, I feel that my companion is entitled to use whichever fork she chooses," Damian said. There was a warning note in his business-calm voice.

"Very good, sir," the waiter replied stiffly, his thin smile stretching further.

Steph stared blankly at her plate, chin tucked. She had to work to keep herself from listing all of the ways that she could make a speedy, silent exit. Dinner wasn't supposed to be a pop quiz for an etiquette class that she'd never taken. Why couldn't Lucius have demanded that Damian be seen eating at a burger shack? Preferably one that didn't have napkins and served their burgers and fries in baskets-no utensils, no plates, no problems.

A burger and a night out fighting crime. She was a simple girl who liked simple things. Was that so wrong?

"Start with the utensil farthest from your plate," Damian instructed, voice low. Her helpless confusion was showing, then. _Great._ Something new to grind in her face. "Work your way in, using one utensil per course. The salad fork is on your outermost left, followed by the dinner fork and dessert fork. Your soup spoon is on the outermost right, followed by your beverage spoon, dessert spoon, salad knife and dinner knife. Work from the outside in, always."

Stephanie felt dizzy and more than a little bit sick.

"This was such a bad idea."

"No. I don't care what you use. I'm only telling you for future reference."

"No. Seriously. This was _such a bad idea._ You saw how the waiter was looking at me, right? He's not the only one. That lady, that one over there with a rock on her finger the size of a baby's fist? She just whispered _look at that poor thing_ to her husband." Her chest ached like her ribs had been busted all over again. She hated pity. Absolutely hated it. "I'm a _poor thing_ now."

_"Enough."_

Damian slammed down his fork, rattling the glasses. She jumped reflexively, her knees hitting the underside of the table.

"Don't make a scene," Steph whispered, hands raised in treaty. It was almost a plea. "I'm sorry, okay? You should've just picked up a high society girl and schmoozed if you really had to make an appearance. I suck at this. I'm sorry. Just don't make a scene."

"I didn't have to come," he said quietly, each word measured carefully. "I lied."

"What?"

His jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth. "I said, I lied to you. Fox requested that I make more appearances, but he did not force me to come here tonight. I merely-I acted upon his _suggestion._ I came here because the food is excellent. I came here because I wanted to."

Steph giggled, high and nervous. She only laughed like that when she was close to hysterics.

"Why? Why would you-" Her chin trembled, beyond her control, and her voice dipped into a fainter whisper. "-why would you _embarrass_ me like this?"

"That wasn't my intention," he said, looking away.

"You should have known better. I'm not like you. I'm not-Steph Brown isn't anyone. I didn't finish high school, I didn't finish college, I've never held down a job, I've never gone to a restaurant that didn't have a twelve-and-under section of the menu, I've never-" She blinked frantically against the way her eyes were burning. It was a losing battle.

She felt so small. So stupid. How dare he reduce her to this. She'd fought so hard to win her confidence, to prove that she was more than the circumstances she'd been born into-he was always stabbing into that fragile bubble with needles, always trying to pop it in small ways, and now he finally had. He'd won.

"I don't know what a salad fork is for. I mean-salad, I can guess that much, but I don't know which one is which. There's like-there's like five forks, and they all look the same. You saw how that waiter looked at me. I shouldn't _be_ here. He knew it, I know it, and you know it."

"That wasn't the waiter," Damian muttered, gaze fixed at some point past her shoulder. He couldn't even look at her. She was embarrassing _him_, too. "That was the _sommelier_."

"What the fuck is a _sommelier?"_ Steph demanded in a hysterical whisper, her voice full of tears. "If you were trying to make a point, I get it. Okay? You win. I'm not cut out to be upper-class. My dad was a crook with mental problems and my mom was a pill-popping enabler. I know where I came from. I'm not ashamed of that, because my mother was a good woman and I've-I'm not a statistic. I'm-"

"Stephanie-" he tried to say, but she was couldn't stop. Awful words kept hemorrhaging out.

_"-screw you,_ Damian, seriously. You might be a psycho, but you're a psycho with culture. Why this place? Why this dress? This dress probably costs more than my mother made in a month, and all it does is show everyone here how scarred up I am. Is that what you wanted? For people to see Damian Wayne humoring some dumb blonde that just _looks_ like damaged goods? Did you think it'd make you seem heroic?"

That got him to look at her. His blue eyes blazed with anger.

Good. Then maybe he would feel as awful as she did.

"That is not what I wanted. That is not anything _near_ what I wanted, and if anyone dares to imply that I will personally ruin any career they would have had."

"I-"

"No. Listen to me. I don't care who your parents were," Damian hissed, his voice wound steely-tight. She could barely hear him over the conversations around them, the polite murmuring punctuated by the bright chimes of silver cutlery on fine china and crystal glasses meeting in toasts. What he had to say was only for her ears, so she had to strain to hear every word. "I don't care how you were raised, or what mistakes you have made. I don't care that you are not accustomed to gifts. I. Do. Not. Care. These facts are inconsequential to me. I want you to have these things because you deserve them-because I _want_ to give them to you. I want for you to not want for anything. You give so much. You _care._ You deserve to be cared for in return. Frankly, fuck the fucking _sommelier_. His taste in wines is subpar at best and he is a weasel. I wanted this to be nice for you. Because you're healed, now, and. And I didn't-I didn't know how to do it."

Stephanie was completely speechless. She opened her mouth to say something, to deny that she wasn't worth half of this, to explain that she was just trying to make up for all the stupid, selfish things that she'd done over the years, to apologize for what she'd said, but no words were coming.

Nobody had ever said that to her before.

"That fucking _sommelier_, and m-my mascara isn't-" Her breath hitched as she tried to stave off the real waterworks. "-it's not waterproof, and I'm going to look worse than I already do, a-and-"

"Shut up! I mean-please. Shut up, please."

"You shut up," she laughed, but it came out a ragged-edged sob. "This was nice. I'm just not good at nice. Nice makes me break out in hives."

"I didn't...that wasn't meant to make you cry," Damian said, sounding half-helpless. "I didn't mean for any of this. Did I misspeak?"

She reached across the table and took his hand, knotting their fingers together tightly. His face slid and swam in her aqueous vision, blurred by candlelight and tears.

"Nah," she said, her voice reduced to a shaky croak. "That was effin' beautiful."

"I meant it," he said, staring down at their tangled-up fingers. "Do you doubt that? Is that why you're crying? Don't be angry. I can do better. Tell me how, and I will."

"No," Steph said, her mascara-gray tears rolling down her cheeks. "I know you mean it. That-_that's_ why I'm crying."

"You make no sense."

"I'm a woman. You'll get used to it."

Damian waved for the check. The poor waitstaff were probably praying for them to leave, so it didn't take long for it to get to their table.

"How was it, sir?" The _maître d'_ asked, peering at Stephanie out of the corner of his eye. She left mascara smudges on the fine linen napkin she was wiping her eyes with, then blew her nose loudly.

"You should fire your _sommelier_ immediately," Damian said loudly as he signed his name. She could almost _watch_ his voice carry through the room, heads tilting toward their table. "His wine choice so insulted and upset my companion, she can barely keep her composure."

"Sir," the waiter said, with the tired flatness of a man who had to deal with spoiled rich children regularly. "I do not see how that can be."

"Oh, no? Please, allow me to explain," Damian said, and now all the chairs in the room seemed to be leaning toward his magnetisim. "He claimed to be serving us a 1992 Château d'Yquem, at a price of three hundred dollars. As I _pray_ you know, the entire 1992 vintage of Château d'Yquem was deemed unworthy of the name and was summarily discarded. We were served a 2009 Ygrec d'Yquem, a wine worth three times less, and told that it was the Château. I have sat here and asked myself, why would he do such a thing? The only thing that I can surmise is that he paired my wine not to my meal, but to what he imagined my taste in _women_ to be. He scoffed at her inability to hold her utensil properly and looked down upon her appearance. This woman," his voice rose, then, _boomed._ "Is a survivor. This meal was meant to be a celebration, since this is the first time in months that she has been able to hold a fork at all."

That rippled through their sudden audience. People started getting up, abandoning their meals.

"In short, sir, your _sommelier_ is both a boor and a crook. My business associates will hear of this, rest assured. You cannot cheat your patrons, nor can you openly mock a woman because you believe her unfit for your _fine establishment."_ He slipped his pen back into his breast pocket as the _maître d'_ gaped, horrified.

Damian stood and offered Steph his hand. He blazed with Wayne charisma.

She was as speechless as the _maître d'_. She took his hand, suddenly _very okay_ with being Wayne arm candy.

Because she wasn't _just_ Wayne arm candy. With the way he stood beside her, the way he looked at her, she forgot about her visible scars. Damian Wayne was a man of demanding, exquisite tastes. He did not tolerate anything but the very best, and never had.

And he had taken her there because he'd assumed that everyone would see what he saw, nothing less. They'd insulted her, and he hadn't let that slide. Everyone around them was tittering, women giving her twinkling smiles of approval as two dozen men simultaneously called for their checks.

The _maître d'_ realized at that moment that he had totally fucked up. People were getting up and leaving en masse.

"Sir-Monsieur Wayne, I assure you-"

"Ah-ah-ah!" Damian stopped him, holding up his hand. _"La pluie de vos injures n'atteint pas le parapluie de mon indifférence._ This beautiful woman has been insulted, sir. You cannot undo that damage. Now please, allow my companion and I to leave and try to salvage what remains of our ruined evening."

As they left, the room broke into applause.

"What did you say to him?" She didn't let go of his arm, even after they were out of sight. "I mean, in French."

He smiled, obviously pleased with himself. "I told him that his spluttering insults did not reach the umbrella of my indifference."

"You're a little bitch in every language," she told him fondly as he helped her into her coat and out to the car. "That was amazing. You know that, right?"

"He belittled you. I could not let that stand unaddressed. I can only hope that he learns from this experience, because if he had been any ruder to you I would have said the same thing while dangling him off the balcony by the crooked lapel of his knock-off Canali jacket."

And he would have, too. Steph knew that.

"Can I...I don't know. Make dessert or something, to make up for this?"

All that bold, startling charisma simmered down, and he was once again a teenage boy with flushed cheeks.

"I think I'd like that, yes."

"Good." Stephanie took a deep, cleansing breath, then let it go. She watched it hang, white and puffy, on the cold winter air. She felt lighter than she had in a very, very long time. "This was nice. We should do it again sometime. Next time, though, we should hit up Chuck E. Cheese's. More age appropriate for us both, don't you think?"

Damian snorted once, then again, then burst out in rare, loud laughter. It startled her-had she ever seen him do that? She found herself laughing with him. They collapsed together in the back of towncar, wiping their teared-up eyes and trading broad, almost shy, grins. The driver just shook his head and started the engine.

"Infinitely more appropriate," he agreed, and took her hand.

* * *

><p>"What is it going to be this time?" Damian asked with a long-suffering sigh. "Talking dalmatians? Talking dishes? Talking elephants? Talking crickets? One of these days, you must explain to me why some things talk in these damned 'Disney Classics' and some are kept mute. What is <em>wrong<em> with Pluto? Why is that he is forced to walk on all fours and bark, while Goofy is bipedal and at least has the rough estimation of speech? What is this _a-hyuck_, which is a sound no dog makes?"

Being Damian, his Goofy imitation was beyond pitch-perfect. Steph grinned at him from the floor, where she was sorting through DVD cases.

"That is so cool. Do it again."

"Absolutely not," he huffed. "And, as usual, you completely missed the point that I was trying to make. Goofy is allowed to speak, and even allowed raise a child as a remarkably _inept_ single father. But Pluto continues to bark and walk on all fours. Who is keeping him there, preventing his evolution? Mickey? Personally, I believe that Mickey Mouse is a tyrant who shows clear nepotism to some and crushes all others below his ridiculously oversized yellow shoe. Why is this not a discussion that is happening? Why is no one fighting for the rights of Pluto, and other parties not allowed voices?"

"You've officially gotten _waaaaay_ too invested. Let me blow your mind a little: Pete is a cat. Where is his tail? Lost in the fifties or something. So dial down the criticism. Not all of this is supposed to be read literally."

_"Tt,"_ said Damian, sprawling so that he took up more of the couch. At over six feet tall, he didn't have to try very hard.

"Ha! Found it!" Steph crowed triumphantly, putting the DVD in the player and hurrying to the couch. "Scoot your big butt over, D-man. We're watching the _Lion King."_

He simply gave her a bored look. "Oh. Talking _lions._ Grand."

"Shush," she said as the first song started playing. Since he wasn't giving up the couch, she just crawled over him until he was forced back lest he end up with a lap full of Batwoman. To most boys, that would have been an invitation. To someone with Damian's pronounced personal bubble, not so much. "Everyone can talk but the wildebeest."

"And why not them?"

"Because they're meant to be seen as a force of-God, just shut up and watch the opening credits. This shit is iconic, so pay attention."

After the little golden cub had been _Simbaaaaa_'d and thrust into the sunlight, he sprawled a little bit more toward her area of the couch, but didn't touch her. He got close enough that she could feel his body heat, but a piece of paper could still be put between them.

Steph sighed. She'd forgotten how frustrating teenage boys could be.

But she loved the Lion King. Really, she did. She hummed along with the songs, drawing her knees up and covering her cold toes with her favorite ratty purple blanket. It'd been her blankie, the baby blanket that she'd dragged around for most of her childhood. Even though it was threadbare in places now, she couldn't fathom throwing it away. Besides, Alfred had all but claimed it as his, which was why it had a liberal shag of white and black hair on it.

Steph was nervous, though. She'd picked out this movie for a specific reason. She'd been putting off watching it with Damian for weeks, but the time had finally seemed right. With the way he dissected the movies, truly absorbing them, she'd wanted to see what kind of reaction this one would get.

As _the scene_ approached, she chewed on the edge of her fingernail. The stampede thundered across the 70-inch screen, and Damian went very still.

She watched Damian carefully out of the corner of her eye. She'd seen the Lion King so many times over, she knew the next part by heart-Simba would go to Mufasa's body and realize that his father was dead. Then, he'd be run off from the Pridelands, to wander until the girl he loved called him back and helped him claim his father's territory. There wasn't an American kid alive that didn't know that Mufasa died...except Damian. This twist was totally knew for him. It'd blindsided him. Guilt tugged just below her ribs, but she couldn't have warned him.

His eyes were glued to the screen, brows bunched. His expression was strange, and it took her a second before she realized that it was because it was an expression of _empathy,_ of memory, of reliving something bleak.

He refused to tell anyone how Bruce had died. He would not-and maybe just _couldn't_-rehash it, no matter how much it frustrated and angered the people around him. Babs had said that he had shown his true colors as a sociopath the night that Batman had died, because despite the loss he hadn't cried. He'd shown nothing at all.

But now, his eyes were shiny-bright with unshed tears. His throat worked, his breathing rapid and shallow. A tear spilled over, streaking down his cheek before he roughly wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Babs hadn't understood. His father's death had ruined him, and he just hadn't been able to express it.

Steph reached over and wove her fingers together with his. She didn't say anything.

"I don't like this movie," he announced, voice thick. "Talking lions-do you still think me a child?"

"Nah," she said, and leaned into him. "Nobody's too old for Disney. And be patient, D. He gets a lion ladyfriend and a happy ending eventually."

He sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his free hand.

"I don't care about the mating rituals of lions, and happy endings are unrealistic. Parents should know better than to pollute the minds of their children with fluff and nonsense that leaves them unprepared for real life. This whole thing is juvenile and-"

"Shh," Stephanie interrupted, squeezing his hand. "Listen to the nice talking animals. They're wise. They know things."

He grumbled, but went quiet again. His arm found its way around her waist-but only after several false starts and the kind of hesitance that reminded her that yes, he _was_ still a teenage boy. A teenage boy who had zero experience with the opposite sex, too.

They hadn't expressly said anything one way or another, but after their disastrous not-date it'd been clear to her that he liked her. Maybe loved her, because showing more than mild tolerance to people and things was a big deal for him, and he'd definitely shown that he cared about her. A lot.

And what about her?

Her thoughts were complicated, to say the least.

Steph leaned her head against his shoulder, eyes drifting half-shut. He absentmindedly stroked her knuckles with his thumb, a small but gentle show of affection.

It'd been years since she'd gotten this close to anyone, much less a man. She'd started having sex early on-at the too-tender age of thirteen-and had fizzled out quickly. Her partners had been arbitrarily chosen, teenagers at least four or five years older than her, and some armchair psychologist in her noted that this had probably been an expression of her daddy issues. She'd wanted any man who wanted her, because she'd wanted to be _wanted._ It'd been desperate and uncomplicated. Maybe other early bloomers enjoyed sex, and more power to them, but she hadn't. It'd been messy and uncomfortable-painful, sometimes-but it'd been the only thing that made her feel accepted. None of her hookups had been interested after her belly had started rounding out, but she hadn't needed them at that point. She'd had Robin, her personal Boy Wonder, her almost-boyfriend and he'd been so good and caring and _safe._

Tim had been awkward but protective. He hadn't asked anything of her. He'd been cute and well-meaning, and there'd been no pressure. He'd wanted her, not her body, and she'd loved him for that. Really, truly loved him. She'd wanted to give him everything, once she'd had the baby and lost her pregnancy weight.

But things had happened, and they'd drifted. A part of her had always wondered if it'd been because he'd lost interest in her, or if he had interest in women-or anyone, for that matter-or if he'd just fallen in love with the idea of protecting her. Once she'd proven that she didn't need his protection, that she was capable of being Robin _herself_, there'd been a disconnect.

And then she'd 'died'. She'd convinced herself that he'd be happy to see her when she came back, that he'd only been angry because she'd replaced him. But all the reunion kisses that she'd imagined when the strangeness of Africa had kept her awake had ended up being stupid dreams.

Screw him, she'd figured. She could do better.

But she hadn't done better. She hadn't done anything. Being Batgirl had consumed her life, and then every connection she made dropped one by one. Detective Gage-her tall, dark detective that had traded her flirt for flirt way back when-had transferred, Cass-her best friend, the Batgirl before her, the girl who'd half convinced her that maybe boys weren't the answer-had taken a position with the new Justice League, Kara-the sweet alien who'd half convinced her that maybe _humans_ weren't the answer-would never stay in Gotham, not for long.

Her options had dried up, and she'd let them. Who'd want a battle-scarred and almost constantly bruised Bat-especially one that the Bats themselves had barely wanted, when they'd been around? Nobody, she'd figured with a grim satisfaction. Nobody would, and that was okay. She didn't have to worry about anyone wanting her for her body, didn't have to worry about anyone wanting her at all. She was the Bat, and that was something powerful and sexless.

But then, Damian had come back and messed everything up by being an adult.

She was afraid that she liked him because there was a big chance that she wouldn't get anyone else. It wouldn't be fair to him or her if she got involved with him just because she was lonely.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew that wasn't the case. When he'd come back, she'd been relieved. When he'd gone into Ivy's bower, she'd been terrified. When he'd shown up pounding on her window because he'd wanted her _with_ him, she'd been touched. When she'd been so sure she'd died for real, his face was the first thing she saw as she came to-and she'd known that she'd be okay, because he was there. When he'd ripped into that French guy in the restaurant, she'd felt...

She'd felt as amazing as Steph Brown as she'd always felt as Batwoman.

He was strong and intelligent and capable of incredible kindness when he didn't think anyone was watching. Damian had more problems than a math book, but she wasn't exactly Little Miss Traveling with Light Baggage. She was older than he was, but eighteen was truly only a number with him. He'd acted like a grown man when he'd ten, and she hadn't let go of the childish energy that kept her buoyant, so...they met at the middle.

He was a bat, and she was a bat, and that kind of made them a thing.

When the credits finally rolled, she glanced at him.

"Still fluff and nonsense?"

"Yes," he said stubbornly. "But...it was a fairly effective allegory. For a film starring talking lions."

"I told you you'd like it," Steph said, pleased. He opened his mouth to argue, but-as usual-she beat him to the punch. In one smooth movement, she straddled his hips, basically sitting in his lap, and kissed him.

That cut off any high-and-mighty observations he had on the subject. When she broke the kiss, he was smiling.

She might have been a little bit in love with him, she realized, even though his kiss was clumsy. He wasn't smirking, wasn't grinning wolfishly, wasn't baring his teeth like he usually did. _Smiling,_ his blue eyes bright.

It hit her then that she'd never seen him really happy. Smug, maybe. Relaxed, sometimes. But never happy. Had anyone kissed him before, even platonically? Ever?

She kissed him again, before the thought could settle and bring tears to her eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

"ME NO AM WORLD'S WORST DETECTIVE!"

"There are days," Damian said, brassily annoyed, "Where I hate this city and every soul in it."

"Except for me," Steph reminded him, handing him a length of chain.

"When you're useful."

"I'm always useful."

"When I need something large to hide behind, yes."

"Guess who's sleeping on the Bat-Couch? _Youuuuuu aaaaaaare."_

_"Tt."_

"WHY AM PAYING ATTENTION TO BATZARRO? BATZARRO NO AM IGNORING YOU!"

"I _rrrrrreally_ dislike this guy," Steph said as Damian wrapped one end of the chain around his fist.

"Not worth the air he 'no am' breathing, no. I'll finish this quickly. Make sure the kids are herded together for when the GCPD deigns it appropriate to arrive."

"Just don't break his spine. He probably needs that. I mean, I don't know because everything about him is wrong on eighteen levels, but-"

"The children, Batwoman."

In their line of work, there were two types of rough nights. There were the nights that were physically draining, where they came back to the cave nursing new cuts and bruises, and then there were the nights that were just emotionally draining. The kind of nights where any caped crusader was forced to turn their gaze inward and reflect on what the hell it was they were doing, really.

For them, this was that kind of rough night. It'd started with a riot, which had been followed by a meth lab explosion, which had been followed by a robbery...it had all blurred together.

It'd all been capped off by Batzarro taking several children hostage in a fairground. Steph didn't like Batzarro on a good day-a big, toothy abomination unto the Bat name that did nothing but kill and howl nonsense? Uh, no. There was nothing there that was likable. She could tell that Damian had hit the absolute end of his patience, so she let him at the not-Bat-better that he get some of that rage out and tucker his little self out. That way, she wouldn't have to deal with him being keyed up and cranky for another six hours before he finally went to bed.

"C'mon, guys. I'm the nice Bat," Steph said, kneeling beside the two little boys that Batzarro had kidnapped. He needed a Robzarro, he'd claimed, and you only found those at circuses.

Poor kids. So much therapy lay in their futures. They'd been pulled from their beds, so they were still half-asleep and upset and confused. They were probably about four or five, too young for a potential Robin, but small enough that she could carry one in each arm. They hugged on tightly, the unhappiest of koalas. She walked quickly away from where Damian was already laying into Batzarro with the chain; hopefully, she could stave off at least some of that need for therapy.

"We'll get you home soon, don't you worry," she said gently, soothingly. One of the boys had his thumb jammed in his mouth, sucking unblinkingly. The other one wouldn't stop crying. "It's okay, it's okay. Shhh. Shh."

The fair was a tiny one, one of the ones that set up for a couple of days before moving on. That was the safest way to do business in Gotham anymore-get in, get paid, and leave before it could get its claws into you. There wasn't anything really impressive about it. The largest attraction it had was a big moonbounce.

And that gave her an idea. Steph carried them over to the moonbounce, toeing off her boots and ducking inside. They were too shell-shocked to see what she was doing, too terrified to even contemplate the idea of fun.

But this was a two-prong plan. One, Batzarro had the IQ of a brick, so if by some ungodly chance he got away from Damian, he wouldn't think to look for them there. Two, she could at least startle them enough by bouncing with them that they might calm down a little. She pulled off her gloves-nothing sharp, nothing that might puncture the inflated castle.

"You guys ever do this before?" She asked, since they were still staring at her with huge eyes. "It's fun. All you've gotta do is jump, and it's like you can fly." She did it once with them still in her arms-she jumped down hard, sending the three of them flying up.

The boys shrieked, but it was a different kind of cry. It was surprise, not fear. Steph jumped again, and again, and soon enough they were waving their arms and wriggling to be let down so that they could jump on their own.

"Big arms, guys!" she instructed, holding her cape out to show them. "Like Batman!"

If there was a God, they'd think that this was just some kind of nightmare that'd traversed into the realm of dreams. She had her fingers crossed, at least.

"You called?" A voice rumbled from outside of the moonbounce. Damian poked his pointy-eared head in past the flap, and the response was instantaneous: the kids started screaming, scramble-bouncing back to her. They held onto her legs like she'd protect them from the bad man.

Damian recoiled visibly.

"Oh no, no, shh, shh boys. That's _my_ Batman. He's my friend, and he came to play with us." Steph said, a comforting hand on each child.

"I came to what," Damian echoed flatly.

"You came. To. _Play._" Steph said, her voice sweet but her emphasis sharp. "Because you're my Batman. So take off your shoes and get in here. Now."

"You do realize that I just chained a supervillain to the-"

_"Take off your shoes."_

One of the boys gave a hiccupy little giggle as Batman pulled off his boots and gloves with a loud sigh. He crawled into the castle, looking dour and irritated. The braver boy tugged on his cape, chirping a high, uncertain question.

"Bounce?"

And Damian, bless him, picked up the kid and started bouncing.

The situation was defused, the day was saved, and Steph might have successfully saved some parents some money on therapy. She grinned at him.

"Remember," he said quietly, then paused. "Remember when we did this?"

And she did-of course she did. It'd been the first time she'd teamed up with him, back when they were Batgirl and Robin, ten and eighteen, Fatgirl and the Boy Psycho.

"Of course," she said. "That was forever ago, god. I didn't think that _you'd_ remember, though."

"How could I forget?" He asked, as the boy in arms giggled gleefully and waved his chubby fists. "It was the first time that someone allowed me to be a child." With a rare smile, he added, "As well as our first date."

Stephanie was still laughing with the police showed up.

* * *

><p>When Stephanie had a problem, she didn't let it lie for long. It wasn't in her nature to allow things to fester. She was nothing if not straight-forward. Damian imagined that this was a good thing, because <em>woman<em> was not a dialect he spoke fluently, so he would not have survived if she'd been the type to bury her feelings and lash out passive-aggressively. All lashing out that she did was extremely aggressive and guided by her fists.

So, she didn't beat around the bush.

"Are you attracted to me?" Steph demanded, her voice quaking shrilly. He'd learned that that particular note was a red alarm, so he set down the file he'd been reading. "Or do you just want the idea of me? Is anything going to happen, or can I just stop shaving my legs already?"

"Excuse me?" Damian asked. Where had _this_ come from? "What gave you the impression that I'm not attracted to you?"

"There's more to life than kissing," she said, and there was a desperation in her voice that he didn't understand. "Is this going to go further than kissing? Because if it's not, that's fine-_I'm used to it._ But just. I don't want to keep waiting for something that isn't going to happen."

"I thought waiting was supposed to be an admirable trait," he said, glancing away. He hated when he did or said something-or, in this case, _failed_ to do something-that made her bafflingly unhappy.

It wasn't that he hadn't thought about intercourse.

He was eighteen and kept exceedingly close quarters with a woman. He rarely _stopped_ thinking about sex.

But there was a very real possibility that Timothy Goddamn Drake could beat him at this one thing, and that thought made his heart pump ice. Drake and Stephanie had been in an established relationship for years, the longest one that either of them had held. The foolish oaf had ruined it, but that didn't erase his fingerprints. He'd touched her, loved her, and had experiences that Damian lacked. It was one thing that Red Robin could feasibly best him at-one very, very important thing. He couldn't accept that. He just couldn't.

What if she changed her mind? What if he made a fool of himself and she decided they were better off as...whatever it was that they'd been before.

"I know that...that you and Drake..." his voice petered off into a miserable mumble. "I lack his experience. I want you to know that, so you won't be disappointed with me."

"Oh," said Stephanie, a hand over her mouth as her cornflower blue eyes widened. "Oh, _D._ You think that Tim and I-that we did the nasty-"

_"Please,"_ he cut in, rubbing his face with one hand. "I don't want to imagine it, much less discuss it."

"-so you think that you've got to do better than him, and you think that I have a second degree black belt in sex or something-"

_"Stephanie."_

"Shh. Look. Do you want to know the honest to goodness truth? Nothing happened between us. We kissed. That's it. He was uncomfortable with doing anything with me when I was fat and pregnant, and I don't blame him, but-"

"I would have," he offered. And it was the truth, too. The idea of her being with child was more interesting to him than repulsive. And maybe-maybe someday, he would pursue that with her. By his lofty estimation, she was the only woman worthy of carrying his child.

She smiled crookedly, patting his cheek.

"I know you would've, but you were kind of seven years old at the time. But, _that_ awkwardness aside, I'm serious about me and Tim. I think that he's a romantic asexual-he likes the connection, but he doesn't have any interest in messy bits. That's the way he's wired, and now that I'm a stable adult and not a broken-hearted teenager, I can respect that."

"Hm," Damian said, processing that. Romantic asexual? He hadn't known that such a thing existed, but he did know that Stephanie would not say something like that just for the sake of putting him more at ease. She didn't humor him like that, which was something that he respected about her.

Steph took both of his hands and put them on her breasts. He could feel the weight of them, the warmth, the lines of her brassiere's cups. His face caught fire.

"Tim never even touched my boobs," she told him very seriously. "Congrats! You just beat Tim at Sex-Fu. How's minor league second base treating you, champ? Feel free to tell me that my boobs are awesome."

"I-" his voice cracked embarrassingly. "Your-I-he was an _idiot."_

"Nah, don't say that. I just ended up not being what he wanted. That happens."

"I do," Damian mumbled, standing stock-still and just touching her. "I do want you."

She smiled, her cheeks invitingly pink.

"So...are you just going to...keep hanging onto them? Because they're not doorknobs. I give you permission to fondle. Want to make a run for another base? I won't stop you."

"You're impossible," he huffed, but he dropped his hands to her hips and kissed her thoroughly.

He was a quick study.

* * *

><p>It happened when it was meant to happen, or as close enough to that as possible. She didn't rush him, and he didn't push her. They both had things that they were wrestling with, so hurrying the process along would have made it awkward and unenjoyable.<p>

They'd just returned from their nightly patrol, settling into their usual routine. Suits were shucked and cleaned. Steph brewed a pot of tea, and then she went to bed. He usually stayed up longer, making certain that the nights' activities had been catalogued and processed. He couldn't sleep when things were left unfinished.

But this night was different. He couldn't say how, or even why, but he'd been all too aware of her the entire evening. When she brushed by him, his mouth went dry; when she smiled at him, he found himself smiling stupidly back at her.

And Batman wasn't supposed to smile stupidly at anyone.

They got out of the Batmobile and shed gloves and boots wordlessly, tiredly. He followed her to the washroom, leaning against the counter as she scrubbed her face and hands. They took turns, and it went without saying that ladies used the sink first.

As tired as she was, she wasn't doing much more than going through the motions. That's why she missed the stream of water and got soap in her eyes.

It was such a small, stupid thing.

Stephanie yelped like a banshee, patting blindly around for her wet washcloth.

_"Jesus,_ woman, are you completely inept? Don't answer that, the answer is on your face, you-"

"Shut up!" she said, still flailing around wildly.

And she was supposed to be an adult, too.

Damian grabbed the washcloth and went to hand it to her, but she'd flail-bumped her way to the lightswitch, and the washroom went pitch black.

"Wonderful," Damian deadpanned. "You never cease to amaze me."

"Shut up," she said again. "Keep talking. I want to know where to hit."

"I have no idea how you ever managed to survive on your own. Stand still," he instructed, and she did.

At the tender age of six, he'd been capable of tracking a man's breath and movements in the dark, pinpointing him expertly enough to kill him. Loss of vision didn't bother him, and night had never been a stranger.

He cleaned her face off with the damp cloth, taking care to wipe her eyes.

"Thanks," she said, her voice oddly high. "That's-ah. That's better."

He could hear her heartbeat in the dark, the soft shudder of her breathing. She was scared, which he didn't understand. He knew better than to entertain the idea that she could be scared of the dark; they _were the night_ and all that. She should have known by now that he wouldn't hurt her, and that if he did he would hate himself. Her pulse was high, her breathing uneven, so-

She gave a moan as soft as a sigh when he touched her again, and understanding slammed a hot line from his head directly to his crotch.

Oh.

No, she was not scared.

No, her pulse was racing for an entirely new reason.

"Do you-?" she asked, and he didn't even allow her to finish the question.

Damian put an arm around her, lifting; her thighs hugged his sides, ankles crossed behind his back. Just the _pressure_ of her thighs around his waist, her nails digging into his back, made him want to goddamn _cry._

She was perfect. Stupid, obnoxious, brilliant, and perfect.

Yes, he wanted to. He wanted to so badly, he couldn't find the words to voice it. He wanted to so desperately, he didn't care if his first time was in the same room they hosed their boots down in.

But.

"I don't-I've never-"

"You're a virgin," Steph said, and the dark warmed with the smile in her voice. "I know. Listen. I've got a terrible secret that I've been keeping from you. Guess it's a good as time as any to come clean."

No. No, no, no. Not now. Not when they were so close, not when he wanted this, wanted her, what was she-was she-was _Drake-?_

She arched, pulling her baggy nightshirt off over her head. She took his hands, guiding one to the curve of her hip and the other to her breast. He could feel her scars dance beneath his palms when she twisted, when she moved. He may or may not have stopped breathing altogether.

"I'm not a virgin," she said, with the tone of someone giving up some great, weighty confession.

Damian spluttered-well, of _course_ she wasn't; she'd had a child when she was younger than he was-and she laughed.

"Relax," she instructed, arms loose around his shoulders. She carded her fingers through his hair, and he could feel the edges of her fingernails drag against his scalp; he swallowed reflexively, closing his eyes with a slight shiver. "This isn't a big deal. You don't have to worry about impressing me, or performing a certain way. I like you, okay? No matter what. I don't care if you're too nervous to pop a stiffy."

"Can you _not_ talk about my-" He couldn't say it. Couldn't get the word out. Couldn't get any _version_ of the word out, not even in the dark. "Like _that?"_

"Your what?" She asked, feigning complete innocence. Her long lashes brushed his cheek as she leaned into him, her hand trapped between them. She palmed him through his sweats, and he had to keep his hips from pushing into her with a rabbity little thrust.

He prayed that the high, broken squeak he heard hadn't come from him.

He could feel the shape of her smile as she kissed his throat. It had definitely come from him.

"This is supposed to be fun. People forget that sometimes."

"I don't...fun is...it always was..."

He fought with the words, with the explanation he didn't know how to give. Fun wasn't an attractive trait in a killer. Fun wasn't necessary, as much as she believed otherwise. Fun was-

Stephanie kissed him with a light graze of teeth.

_Fun_ sounded so, so appealing all of a sudden. He could learn to like fun.

"I'm your fun sensei. I'm going to teach you things that I expect you to practice. Got it?"

"Ah-hahn-_mmn_..."

She understood the yes, even if it was the single most undignified response he had given in his entire life.

* * *

><p>She needed more sleep than he did. Damian had conditioned himself to follow his father's example-even at age ten, he'd functioned off of three or four hours' worth of rest. Whatever was good enough for Father was good enough for him. So even though he had more than ample reason to stay in bed longer now, he usually left the bed he now shared with Stephanie several hours before she woke up. She had her limits, and he had next to none. Though he was learning to enjoy companionship-really, <em>really<em> enjoy it-he liked having time alone.

In those very early morning hours, where the moon sat fat on the horizon and the pollution began to take on a pinkish haze, it was just Batman and Gotham, the city and its protector.

He spent his time wisely. There were cases that he followed, trails that he explored, that dove deep, deep into the gutters. He could have unpacked those cases with Stephanie, but he preferred to do them alone. There was no chance of her getting hurt, and no one to hold him back.

That's not to say that he killed when she wasn't keeping a watchful eye. No, he didn't dive into the refuse like some kind of junkie desperate for a fix. He stuck to the rules, but he didn't pull as many punches. When he barked, it was with teeth.

It seemed like every street had a dark alley, now, every block a corner where shadows intersected and filthy things switched hands. The 'bad' parts of town spread like a cancer, and he couldn't stop the spread if he was the kind of Batman that only used his father's voice.

Stephanie had her beliefs. Her ideals. Her innocence, despite it all.

He couldn't ruin them.

Damian never knew exactly what he'd find when he chased rats and turned over rocks. There were the old, familiar faces-Two-Face, whose new motto rang _Heads, I win, tails, you lose_; the Penguin, whose empire had exploded after the King disappeared; the list went on and on. There were the new ones, too, like Catwoman. Selina had left the city and retired somewhere warm, claiming that Gotham was going to the dogs. The new Catwoman was generally helpful and sickeningly optimistic, though Damian didn't like how often she found a reason to touch or talk to Steph.

And then there were the old, familiar faces that felt new for all the wrong reasons. They were his ghosts, his dark mirrors.

He found his oldest living 'brother' in a slaughterhouse that had taken on a whole new life with fresh meat. Gone were the cows and pigs-the racks of ribs and halves hanging by hooks were too small for either animal. Jason had beaten him to the place and had taken care of it.

He hated that, because he'd done exactly what Damian had _wished_ he could do: he'd killed the butchers, every last one of them. They were not worth the taxpayers' money that would go to feed and clothe them in jail. They could not be rehabilitated, so Jason had made certain that they wouldn't be draining anything more off of society.

When he felt the cold length of his shadow pass over him, the Hood looked up from washing the blood off his hands. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he laughed, sounding nothing short of delighted.

"Ha! Look at you! All dressed up in big bat panties and everything. How're you doing, little brother? You look _good."_

"Don't call me that," Damian sneered, hands loose at his sides.

He could end it, he realized. The torturous tango between justice and mercy, the one thorny threat his father had never been able to eliminate. He didn't have his father's emotional investment in Jason, his guilt. All he had were the memories of being hurt by him as a child.

He could end it right then, right there, and still be back to the cave before Stephanie finished making waffles.

The thought was enticing.

"Are you thinking about killing me?" Jason asked, shaking his hands dry. "How about crippling me? I hope you are. I'll be disappointed if you aren't."

"I could do it," he said icily. "Make it so that you never walked again. And it'd be the right thing to do."

"See, the problem with you is that you think you know better," Jason said, conversationally, taking his gun out of his belt and gesturing with it. "And you don't. You're still a stupid kid, and all you're doing is following a dead man's marching orders. Doesn't that ever get to you? Newsflash: you're not going to get a pat on the back. I'll bet he didn't even give you one when he was still kicking."

"Shut up," Damian snarled, bending slightly at his knees. He couldn't kill him-no, not him; he was the one at the top of the no-kill list, because killing him would punctuate a point he'd been trying to make for years-but he could hurt him. He could break things. He could make him bleed.

And it'd feel _good_. Pressure, pops, then releases. Always satisfying.

But that line of thinking wasn't unique to Damian. No, those were all thoughts that Jason had thought first. He was the original unwanted son of Bruce Wayne, after all.

That was why he hit first, and hit hard. He was every inch the cheater that Damian was-the only difference was that he had more practice.

He'd been primed to jump, ready to aim for a tackle the would hit him squarely in the gut, but Jason moved first. He fisted a hand in a heavy meathook and swung it at him. The strategy had seemed to juvenile; he'd dismissed it when it'd flitted through his own mind. That's what they did in the cartoons, in the movies. It never worked in the real world.

The metal hook hit him in the ribs with enough force to send him flying. He hit the gritty floor, skidding on his back.

Jason was there before he could recover. He looped his cape around his neck and behind his head, creating a sloppy noose that trapped one of Damian's arms against his side. The Red Hood sat squarely on top of him, pulling his fistful of cape tight with one hand and bringing his other fist down again and again.

He was quick. Creative. Ruthless.

In some calculating corner of his brain-one that wasn't being rattled by the punches-he respected that about him.

"Eventually, you're gonna get tired of the _hypocrisy._ You're gonna get tired of being the good little soldier. Honestly? I hope it's sooner rather than later. You're wasting your fucking time."

That sunk in, a cool trickle of logic. It was appealing. It was a thought he'd had himself, many times. Father was gone. Father would never know. Who was he pretending for? They all hated him.

Everyone but Stephanie.

_"GET OFF OF ME, YOU BASTARD!"_

"I'd really hoped you'd be reasonable. You might be fooling the rest of them, but I know a black sheep when I see it."

He nearly had his arm free-Jason shot his shoulder. His aim was good and his eye was better; he knew where the under-armor of the suit had a weak joint. Damian barked a curse, but didn't flinch.

He should have. As soon as he saw his eyebrows arch with curiosity, he knew that he should have faked it. Pretending would have kept Jason underestimating him, would have kept his secret.

Jason jabbed his thumb into the hole in the suit-and he should have dug deep into ruined flesh. His thumb hit bloody but unblemished skin instead. He'd already healed.

He whistled, long and low, then gave him a grin as wide as a Cheshire cat's.

"Well, would you look at that. You do party tricks, too."

Todd had him pinned. Todd had him _pinned_. Everything in him screamed. He couldn't kill him-no one could-but he could humiliate him. And he was doing just that, _masterfully._

"You're a fighter, little brother," Jason grinned, all teeth. "I like that. I'll be honest-I like _you._ You're my favorite brother," he patted his chest. "And that's coming from the heart."

_"Fuck you!"_ Damian howled, straining against his hold. But, his deal had only made him superdurable, not superstrong. Todd had at least forty pounds and several inches on him. He was bigger. Stronger. Damian hadn't fully grown into himself yet, and he was using that to his advantage.

"I mean, I heard about what happened with the _King,"_ Jason drawled, and clamped a hand over his throat. He'd picked up quick that Damian was resilient, so it wasn't just a squeeze-he was crushing his throat, probably simply to see if he'd survive it. "I'd been angling for him for months myself, so imagine my surprise when I found that someone had already made boots out of the big bastard. And I asked myself, _shit,_ who could've done that? None of the other mob bosses were standing up to take responsibility for the kill, and they'd be stupid not to. Croc was strangled to death with barbed wire. That left a message, but nobody signed the note."

Damian's pulse slammed in his ears. With the Hood's weight on his chest and his crushed larynx, he couldn't breathe, much less talk. His vision darkened like a vignette, shot through with dancing motes of light. He could keep conscious through sheer force of will, but that didn't make his lungs burn any less. It was dying, dying slowly and without resolution.

"Now, who'd do that? Who _wouldn't_ want it known that they were a bad enough man to garrote the Croc?" Jason's voice dipped into a silken murmur. "And then-_bam!_-it hit me. Someone who was trying to keep his nose clean. Someone who was trying to pretend that they were better than that."

He was almost glad that he couldn't speak, because he wouldn't have known what to say. He couldn't deny that.

"So, we've got a killer Bat. _Beautiful."_ Jason leaned into him with a creak of leather, pressing something into his forehead. He scratched it with his fingertip.

It was a sticker. A purple scratch-n'-sniff star sticker.

_"Grape job,_ little brother," he said, laughing. "You do me proud. You and me, we could be something great. We could do more than dear old Dad-Bat ever did-what he was afraid to do. You and me, we could clean this city up once and for all. What do you say? Let's eliminate this filth. I'm sure our sister would go for it. She's just as much of a black sheep as we are."

To his oxygen-deprived brain, that didn't click over. Didn't connect. Didn't make sense. He had no sister. There was no _our_, nothing that they shared because Father had excommunicated him for his behavior, for killing, for being the unwanted son-

"She grew up good, too. A fucking spitfire, but hey, what else do you expect from a kid with a bad background? If it makes you feel better, I took care of those goons that took a crowbar to her. It rubbed me the _wrong way,_ and I just so happened to have a crowbar laying around myself. You don't have to thank me. Consider it a gift from me to her. Shit, you could almost consider us kindred spirits."

Stephanie. He was talking about Stephanie. Had been watching Stephanie. _Fuck._

"Ahh, there we go. You want to kill me. Good! You've got potential, sport. Gimme a ring when you're willing to talk."

Jason abruptly unloaded half a clip into him. He lost count after the fourth bullet ripped through his right lung-it hit the peak of his pain threshold, and his body buckled. He healed, but that didn't mean being shot didn't _hurt._

When he came to, the Red Hood was gone. The cement under him was pocked with bullet-holes and slippery with his own blood; for Damian, this was par for the course. He found five spent bullets, checked again, then swore.

That meant the sixth one was trapped inside him still, buried deeply enough that he couldn't feel the bulge of it in his skin. He'd have to find it and cut it out-and hope that he could do it quickly, so that he didn't heal before it was free. If he did heal over, he'd have to slice himself open again and again until he fished it out. It was messy, bloody business. Functional immortality could be a complete pain in the ass-especially since he'd have to stage this self-surgery without Stephanie's knowledge.

He did not need this new complication in his life. It figured, though. Every time something went passably well, karma overbalanced the scales and sent him tumbling.

Damian growled a curse under his breath, peeling the scratch-n'-sniff sticker off of his cowl.

Family was always, _always_ problematic.

* * *

><p>Cooking was not among Damian's considerable talents. Culinary prowess was not in the Wayne genetic code, and since it wasn't a skill necessary to an assassin, he had not been taught to know his way around a kitchen. He could offer some support-no one was as talented as he was when it came to using knives-but he'd learned that it was best for everyone if he did not touch any pans or pots. Nothing went right for him, not even simple tasks like steeping tea.<p>

So, cooking duties fell to Stephanie. It was better than nothing, but it wasn't good.

Stephanie's dishes weren't what anyone would consider epicurean delights. They were filling and edible, but they weren't what he was used to. Pennyworth had been an excellent chef who had delighted in making fine meals. Stephanie's cooking was more...rustic. 'Comfort' food, as she put it.

Comfort meant carbs, which he didn't turn down given their level of activity. Waffles and casseroles were mainstays, though the latter was dicey. More often than not, he watched what she piled into casserole dishes and barely stopped himself from asking if she was _completely mad and wanted him to die._

Tuesday was tater-tot casserole night. It was...edible. The conversation she picked for their dinner was one that robbed him of his appetite, though.

"So...I've been talking to Tim."

Damian went very still, like an animal that had just seen the sharp outline of a predator. _Shit._

"Excuse me?"

"Tim Drake-Wayne," she repeated, but there was a lilt in her voice that would have been absent had she been _really talking_ with Drake. "Your brother. Do we even know any other Tims?"

"Fortunately, no," he said smoothly.

"Ignoring you. Anyway, he's been e-mailing me and calling for weeks. He heard about my mom, so." Steph dragged her fork through her square of casserole, smashing tater-tots with the tines. "He wanted to make sure I was okay, and asked if I'd visit for a couple of days. It wouldn't be a terrible idea."

"But it _is_ a terrible idea," Damian ground out, dropping his fork.

"Keeping positive ties to the Justice League is important."

"So visit the alien." _Kara._ "Or that other Batgirl, the good one." _Cassandra._ "They have the same sway within the group." He _liked_ them.

"He called, D," Steph said flatly. "He's still my friend."

"I have no idea how or why."

"I'm telling you that I'm going for a couple of days, not asking for your permission. I'm not Little Miss Stockholm Syndrome here, and making more appearances outside of Gotham will prove that to everyone else. So, hackles down. I'm doing you a favor, honestly. You could use some good PR in the capes and tights circle."

He scowled at his half-eaten meal. He didn't _care_ what others thought of him-he would continue his father's work, whether or not the world approved of him. But, after his run-in with Todd, maybe it...it would be wise to have her leave for a couple of days. The thought of not being able to keep an eye on her made his pulse shift into a rabbity beat, but he knew that she would be safer away from the streets.

And, he justified, he could probably wrap up the Todd _situation_ much more easily if she wasn't around. Jason knew things, things that were potentially ruinous to their fledgling relationship. He had to treat it with utmost care.

Damian was all too aware that if Stephanie knew half of what he'd done in the past handful of years, she would leave and not come back. There were some things that were unforgivable, even to someone like her.

"Fine," he said, sounding cross. "But keep in contact. And if Drake tries _anything-_"

Stephanie leaned across the table and dropped a swift kiss on his nose.

"You're adorable when you're being a stupid caveman," she said, smiling. "Now, I'm going to ignore what you were implying, because if I don't ignore it I'll have to hurt you. That won't be good for either of us, because I have to somehow convince the head of the Justice League that you didn't knock me out with a club and drag me back to your cave by my hair."

_"Tt,"_ Damian said with an impressive eyeroll. "I'm not the barbarian that hit her romantic interest over the head with a brick."

"Ah, man," Steph gushed. "Those were the good ol' days."

* * *

><p>"You look good," Tim said, and the warmth in his voice and the width of his smile made it obvious that he meant it. "I like the new costume."<p>

"I thought it was about time I traded up. I kept getting crap for calling myself Batwoman while wearing last moniker's fashion," she grinned, and hugged him. He hugged her back, his grip firm.

The old familiarity of it all made little bubbles of happiness rise and pop in her chest. The time and distance had been good for them. They were both adults now, and with age came a fond perspective of the past. It was easier to look back and see the good times, the times worth remembering, instead of the fights that had caused them to grow in opposite directions.

Once upon a time, they'd been friends. _Good_ friends. It was funny-the kind of funny that made you want to shake and cry, not the kind of funny that made you laugh-that she had ended up becoming the Bat, not him. He'd renounced the cowl, even allowing it to hang empty for a year. Tim's priorities had shifted, widened: he was worried about the whole world now, not just one rainy, dank city that'd fed on its own entrails for decades.

It could be said that he was the only smart one in the family.

"You look good," Tim repeated, though now it had the faint upward turn of a question.

Steph's smile turned wry.

"Good for a girl who spent six months fighting crime out of the back of a minivan, right?"

"You did _what_ in a minivan?" Tim demanded. So he hadn't gotten the whole memo, then. It was just as well. If he only had a passing knowledge of what she'd been doing in the two years since they'd seen each other, this whole conversation would go much more smoothly. "Are you serious? Why didn't you call? You know I have partial access to the Wayne accounts, and it's not like the League wouldn't pitch in to help you out. You're one of us."

"Unofficially," she reminded him, because she'd turned them down not once, but three times.

"Unofficially," he agreed with a sigh. He gestured to the tiny, spartan kitchen of his apartment. "C'mon. Hang up your cape and sit for a few. Want something to drink? I've got lemonade."

It was so blessedly normal, so uncomplicated. She was visiting one of her oldest friends, drinking tall glasses of lemonade and talking about the few normal things they had in their lives.

"I'm just glad that Mom got the satisfaction of being clean for ten years," Steph said, once the conversation turned back to her mother's death. "It'd been so important to her. I mean, I'm not saying that she died _happy_, you know? But I feel like she was at a place where she felt like she had control of her life. After all those years with Daddy, and what it did to her, emotionally, I just...I'm glad."

Tim nodded, stirring around his ice cubes with his straw. "Yeah, I understand. Your mother really turned it all around. So did you."

"Not another statistic. That's my motto."

"Well, you're anything but that. I can't believe that you're..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely. "When my Dad died, I barely held it together. You went straight to doing what Bruce did on a billionaire's budget from the back of a minivan. That takes guts. Bruce would be impressed."

"I'm not doing it to impress Bruce Wayne's ghost. I'm doing it for the people in that city who need help."

"And that's why I'm impressed. It's a big job."

He didn't mention the new Batman in Gotham. She knew that he _had_ to know about him, though, and he _had_ to know who was wearing the suit. Whatever had run him out of town had made it so that he didn't want to even touch anything tied to Bruce's biological son.

But she never did know when to leave something well enough alone.

"Why'd you leave Gotham?" She asked. It had the soft push of a plead behind it: _why'd you leave, why'd you leave me, how could you leave when I needed you and you knew it?_

He rubbed a hand over his eyes. They'd moved all too quickly from rehashing the good things to dredging up the bad. Story of their relationship, really.

"You mean the brat didn't tell you?"

"He's an adult. Drop the brat stuff," she said before she could stop herself.

"Adults can be brats. And if we're going to use correct terminology here, he's a sociopathic son of a bitch. You know that. You don't have to pretend to defend him. I won't think less of you for it. There's something about him that's just not right."

Anger swelled in her chest like a balloon filled to its very limit. She wanted to yell, wanted to explode all over him.

"He's changed. He's grown up. Believe me-I've seen it for myself. He's more committed to Gotham than Bats 1.0 had been."

Tim tilted his head curiously, giving her a dissecting look. It was the kind of look that came with the territory and tutelage of the World's Greatest Detective-the kind of look meant to crack invisible shells and lift false pretenses and read what was going on under someone's skin. Usually, Steph would have steeled herself, retreating to a calm and unreadable neutral expression, but she was angry. She was angry, and that made her childishly spiteful. She wanted him to figure it out.

Understanding bloomed behind Tim's eyes.

"Oh, _God,"_ he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. "No. Steph, you're not. Please. Please, tell me you're _not."_

"Not what? Not working with him? Not his partner? Not supporting him? Not his friend?"

She saw in his eyes the one thing that she hated most, the one thing that turned her insides to fire. Whatever he was going to say next, it was going to be patronizing. He was going to talk down to her, because gosh she just didn't have any self-control when it came to men.

Her voice dropped to a furious whisper. "Not _sleeping with him,_ since that's my M.O.? Please, Tim, give me a version of patronizing slut-shaming I _haven't_ heard before."

"I didn't say that, I-"

"No, but you were thinking it, weren't you?" She bit back, her tone hard. She knew that she was jumping down his throat, that she might've been overreacting a little, but to hear him say that to her just..._hurt._ It hurt more than she was willing to admit. So he could forgive her for being a knocked up fifteen year old, but when she had a consensual adult relationship that veered a little to the left of normal, he trotted out the sighs and disgust? "That because I'm older than he is and because you don't approve of him, what I'm doing is wrong."

"You've been through a lot lately. I know that you're having trouble, because I know you. You don't know how to ask for help." Tim's lips thinned as he pressed them together. "I also know that you have kind of a kneejerk reflex when you're feeling lost."

She stared at him, unbelieving that he'd actually said that to her, that he had the gall to believe that he knew her and could pass _judgment_-

"What gives you the right to say that to me? Are you going to write that one off on you being a concerned friend? Really?"

"I'm not calling you a slut," he said tiredly. "I'm worried about you, okay? I don't want you to do something that you'll regret. If it were anyone else, I'd be happy for you. I'm just saying that I know-"

"No." She cut in, fingers tightening on the edge of the table until her knuckles were white. "You don't know. You don't know anything about how I'm wired. You don't get to stand on a pedestal and tell me that you _know_ better than I do. That-what did you call him? Oh, right: that sociopathic son of a bitch." He actually flinched at how sharply she said it. "Well, listen up, Timmy. My mother's been dead for a year. That sociopathic son of a bitch found out within weeks of returning to Gotham, and he gave him a place to live. This new suit? That sociopathic son of a bitch made it for me because everything I had was broken down from overuse. I was injured recently-a bullet in my stomach, three broken ribs, full spiral fracture of my right ulna and radius, and extensive internal bleeding. In fact, I was bleeding out. That sociopathic son of a bitch saved me, performed the surgery himself, and then spent the next three months helping me heal and rehabilitate. You're judging him by who he was when he was ten fucking years old, by the mistakes he made when he didn't know _how_ to be human. So don't you _dare_ tell me that you know that sociopathic son of a bitch better than I do, and don't you _dare_ imply that I'm too naive to see what that sociopathic son of a bitch 'really' is."

Finished, she dragged in a shaky breath. That'd just burst out of her, without pause or rational thought. Tim was visibly stunned; his mouth opened, but he was at a loss for words.

"We give criminals second chances," she said, tone gentling. "Why don't we give our own people the same treatment?"

"I'm sorry," Tim said. He sounded sincere. "I had no idea."

"I know," she said. "And I didn't mean to lose it like that. It's just, he's trying to be better. He's trying so hard, Tim, and it breaks my heart that he thinks he has to be next to God to be accepted by anyone at all. I know that he's got a reputation-and I know that he's earned at least half of that rep-but he's grown up, and he's devoted to doing the right thing. He's giving it his all. You have to at least respect him for that. You know better than anyone that doing the 'right' thing when you're wearing the bat on your chest isn't ever the 'easy' thing."

He digested that for a few seconds, taking a sip of lemonade. She wasn't surprised that he needed a moment to process it-she kind of _had_ yelled it in one steady, defensive stream. It'd been her immediate reflex, her natural response.

It'd surprised her a little, too. She'd wondered what she'd do if someone found out about her and Damian's...yeah, it was serious enough now to call it a relationship. She'd assumed that she'd duck out of saying anything concrete, that she'd be too embarrassed about dating a barely-adult man eight years younger than she was.

But no, her response had been ferocious, and unwavering and proud. She was proud of the man that Damian had grown into. She was proud to be with him.

She loved him.

Tim slid a communicator across the table. It was small, glossy, and stamped with the League insignia.

"If you use this, someone will pick up. No matter what. I was going to say that it was for your use only, but." He paused. Took a breath, then released it. She knew that this was taking a lot for him to say, given all the years and fights and bad blood between him and his adopted brother, and she was proud of him for it. "Tell Batman that he can call anytime. He's got the JLI's backing, as per the recommendation of Batwoman. I'll tell them that your report was thorough and...convincing."

Allies. They had allies, now. The approval of the big names, the official nod that what they were doing was right.

Finally.

"Thank you," she said, holding the communicator to her chest.

"There's always a place for you on the team. I heard about the falling out with Babs, and...I don't want to see you put all your eggs in one basket. You don't have to isolate yourself in Gotham. Just...remember that."

That wasn't the first time that particular offer had been laid out on the table. Tim had nearly begged her to leave Gotham with him, Kara had pleaded that she was scared that she was going to get herself killed, Cass, overwhelmed, had only been able to cobble together a soft 'Don't be alone'. She'd said no each time, and would continue to turn them down. Sure, the grass was greener with them, but Steph knew where her real obligations were.

She knew on a bone-deep level that she was keeping that sociopathic son of a bitch on the straight and narrow. He relied on her to draw the lines for him.

Like she'd told Tim, she wasn't naive. She knew who and what he was, knew what he was capable of becoming. It was absolutely vital that he kept trying to seek her approval.

When she thought of it in those terms, she felt like a horrible person-like she was manipulating him. But she wasn't. Was she?

"You look good," Tim offered again, and she could tell that this time, he meant _you look happy._

She gave him a watery smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

She hadn't forgotten that he'd ducked out of answering her question.

* * *

><p>"You," Damian growled, sprawled back in his chair. "You have no right to judge me! You don't know what trials I've gone through-what I've endured since the day I was born. And I wasn't really <em>born<em>, you know. I was cultured and ripened in an artificial womb. I loathe my birthday, because it wasn't truly the day of my birth. It was the day that my mother arbitrarily decided that I was done enough, ready to be picked. So, you cannot hold me to your standards-you, who are a monster far worse than I."

He took a burning gulp of bourbon, squinting into the soulless eyes of Chuck the Chicken.

"I am _allowed_ to take a night off once in a while. I am _allowed_ to indulge in alcohol if I choose to do so. I am allowed these things because I am the goddamn Batman and you are nothing but an overly judgmental chicken. _You don't know me, Chuck."_

In general, he could have been doing a better job of coping with Stephanie's absence.

The first day had been fine. He'd eaten three meals, patrolled for longer than she would have been able to, slept for three hours, and then finished up some repairs to the Batmobile that he had been putting off. Sex, while enjoyable, had cut deeply into his productivity. He was slightly ashamed that it didn't bother him as much as it should have, but it had boosted his mood and energy so much that he felt that it was worth the sacrifice.

The second day, he'd finished his list of put-off projects, and then didn't know what to do with himself. He'd spent a good chunk of hours combing various networks for signs of Todd, but nothing had turned up. His 'brother' had burrowed in and was biding his time. No matter; he would find him eventually. His father's law prevented him from killing him, but there was no shortage of things that he could do that would render him a non-threat. He'd _enjoy_ doing a great many of them, too.

The third day, all of the asinine loneliness he'd been keeping at an arm's length had caught up to him. He'd patrolled, but his head was elsewhere; he'd ended up cutting it short, returning home, and pouring himself a rare drink.

And that had led directly to his heart-to-heart with Chuck.

He finished his drink moodily, setting the glass on the computer desk.

_"Mmmrrr,"_ Alfred greeted him. His meow was muffled by what he had in his mouth.

A bat. A very dead bat.

Damian's stomach gave an unexpected lurch.

"No, Alfred! No! That behavior is unacceptable!" He said sharply, which made the cat skitter backwards with his prey, his ears flattened against his skull.

He seemed more confused than angry, staring at him with large yellow eyes. His tail swished as he crouched just outside of Damian's reach.

"We don't kill the bats, Alfred. They were in the cave before you were. They mean something. Bad!"

The cat didn't cower or growl. He just froze, bunching into a black and white ball with a madly whipping tail, the dead bat hanging out of his mouth.

Alfred had been bringing him the bat, he realized. It'd been a gift. A present, because he knew that he was a hunter. He was bewildered, because he'd expected him to be proud of his kill.

It might have been the alcohol, but that got to Damian. It tugged at him, because he remembered presenting the severed head of the Spook to his father and getting the same reaction. He remembered the hurt, and the confusion, when his father had turned on him and _roared_. He'd told him no, that he could not be his Robin because he was wild and unfit, and had implied that he would not be dispensing any parental love unless his rules were kept. These rules, of course, went against everything else he'd been taught-everything that had become his natural instincts. He might as well have been telling a kitten not to catch rodents.

He hadn't understood what he'd done wrong. Neither did Alfred.

Damian slid out of his chair. He sat on the floor, opening his palms wide and lowering his voice to a gentle murmur.

"I'm sorry," he said, keeping very still. "I didn't mean it. That's an excellent kill. Come. Let me see."

The cat paused for a moment, not trusting this sudden behavior change after all that yelling. He swore that he could see the conflict in the cat's eyes-the fear of being scolded again, when he'd been trying so hard to please his master. But then he unspooled, slowly padding closer to him. Damian sweet-talked him along.

"It is impressive, you know. To bring down an animal that spends most of its time high above your head is an accomplishment. You must have had to be patient and bide your time."

Alfred gingerly laid the bat down where he could reach it, his rough pink tongue licking the blood from his mouth. Then he arched up and pushed his head into Damian's palm. He stroked the length of his back, relieved when he began to purr.

"Good boy, Alfred. I'm proud of you."

He could be better than his father. He could learn from his mistakes. He _knew_ that he could.

"You should..." He got his footing, then nodded briskly to the cat. "You should take care of that. A messy kill is a disgraceful one, Alfred. You are a Wayne, and I expect the best of you." He paused, then added, "But I will love you regardless. You are a good cat."

With that, he made his way back to his room. Damian flopped on his bed, tired enough to sleep but lacking the drive to undress and get under the sheets. He sprawled bonelessly on top of the duvet. The four posts around him gave a seasick lurch.

This was why he didn't drink. It was disgraceful, it compromised him, and he could barely keep his thoughts and emotions in check. He could live without it. He didn't need to have a ready source of it the way many others did. He was capable of going without.

Wait.

He blinked at the ceiling, frowning.

Had he been thinking about alcohol, or had he been thinking about love? Both were addictions, the favored indulgences of the poor and weak, and his father had resolutely denied himself either of them. He kept sober and strong. Nothing controlled him-not an addiction, not a woman, not his own emotions.

Damian didn't believe that his father had loved his mother, just as he didn't believe that his mother had ever loved him. He had been raised to hold them up as examples, to emulate them so that he could be just as strong. As a child, he had never doubted them-they'd been his personal parthenon, his gods.

But now, he was confused. He'd followed his heart, just like the Disney films had instructed, and the damned traitorous muscle had reduced him to this.

Drunk, lonely, and mooning over a woman he was desperately in love with.

He didn't know who was right, or who was wrong, or if he could force himself to give up the love he had now for the strength he'd always yearned for.

He knew that he wanted her partnership, that he wanted her support. He knew that he wanted her to continue to sleep next to him at night, even though it stretched his sleep schedule from three hours to six or more. He knew that he wanted her to continue to live with him, even though she put hamburger and cream of mushroom soup and tater-tots together in a pan and called it edible. He knew that he was stupid and childish and desperate, but she loved him.

He couldn't allow her to stop loving him. He needed it, needed her. She made him feel things in heights and depths he had never known were possible. It was a kind of madness, but one he embraced.

_"Mrrrrow,"_ Alfred said, hopping lightly onto the bed next to him. He headbutted his cheek, rubbing his furry face over his nose and mouth like he was actively trying to smother him. All was forgiven between them.

"Beast," he greeted warmly. "I take it that you've disposed of your prey. Good."

Alfred rumbled with a throaty purr, curling against his neck. This seemingly doubled Damian's alcohol-induced sleepiness, so he found his eyes fluttering shut.

But cats were twice as fickle as women, he'd learned. He went from sleepy and satiated to leaping up and streaking toward the door without any warning whatsoever.

Well, damn him and damn his whims. He was going to sleep.

The cat started clawing at the door-something he _knew_ he wasn't supposed to do.

"Stop it, Alfred," Damian muttered, not opening his eyes.

He caterwauled piteously.

"Shut up!" He said crankily. " I'm not letting you out, so shut up!"

Feline stubbornness was amazing. Cats did not know the meaning of stopping, especially when it came to things that they knew full well they weren't supposed to be doing. He understood now, he thought, why Catwoman had been one of Father's most lasting adversaries. Cats had a dangerous charm to them, able to lull you into loving and petting them even when you'd wanted to throw them down a flight of stairs not two minutes before. It was an admirable skill, if an underhanded one.

Yelling did nothing to dissuade him. He kept scratching the door, punctuating his assault on the fine rosewood with long, shrill meows.

Damian heaved a sigh, pushing himself to his feet again.

"Fine!" He snapped as he flung the door open and gestured widely. "Go!"

Alfred twined between his ankles, rubbing against his legs. He stretched out the door, elongating impossibly while somehow leaving his back feet inside of the room, then turned and sat. He looked up at him, yellow eyes owlish, and meowed again. It sounded disturbingly like a command.

"I'm not going _with_ you."

_"Nyyyyaaaaaowwwn."_

"You cannot manipulate me. I'm your master, not the other way around."

Alfred abruptly laid down, sprawling over his bare feet. He began to groom himself, ignoring him.

_"MAKE UP YOUR GODDAMNED MIND!"_ Damian bellowed. The cat, all too used to his outbursts, ignored him. Only the very tip of his tail twitched.

Damian had been involved with bank heist standoffs that had been less intense.

"Fine," he sighed. Alfred got up and padded happily out into the hall, his tail held at jauntily victorious angle.

He lead him, unsurprisingly, into Stephanie's room. Before sharing a bed had become a fairly regular thing, she had slept here. He wasn't positive whose bedroom it had been before, but it reflected her touch now-charmingly messy, makeup and tubes of rarely-used lipstick spread on the dresser, unfolded clothing and much-loved paperbacks strewn about the floor. When Damian read, he consumed a book, absorbed the information, and didn't touch it again. Stephanie was a sensitive person, prone to maudlin emoting and impractical behavior. She held onto things-onto people-and cherished them.

He sat down on the edge of her bed, frowning pointedly at the cat.

"So this is where you want to be, is it? _Her_ room? She isn't here, monster. She's in Metropolis, and you know that as well as I do. If she _were_ here, I would not be indulging your terrible behavior at all. Being here is your decision, not mine, so the blame will fall on you."

_"Mmmm-rowww,"_ Alfred trilled, satisfied. He kneaded the comforter to his liking, then curled into a ball and promptly fell asleep.

"And now you're happy," Damian sighed, laying back on the bed and giving Alfred a dirty look. "Of course. Intruding in her personal space because you like the smell of her-in humans, that kind of behavior is called stalking. It's undesirable. But when you do it, it's _cute._ She'd think that it's just adorable how much you miss her, but if _I_-"

He let the thought hang for a second, then realized he didn't want to say it. Not to the walls, not to the cat.

_"Tt,"_ he said instead, closing his eyes and rolling onto his side.

Next time, he would go with her. Just to make sure that nothing happened.

* * *

><p>As pleasant as the pleasantries were after the almost-fight with Tim, Steph cut her trip short. She loved seeing her friends, loved the hugs and the smiles and the way Metropolis felt five times brighter than Gotham. But she couldn't allow herself to love it too much, because it was the kind of happiness that left bruises.<p>

She knew where she was needed, so she went back home. The sense of _home_ that she associated with the Wayne property was new, but it was strong.

And it was ironic, really, because she'd never felt welcomed in the Batcave when Bruce and Dick had worn the cowl. She'd been the outsider, the intruder, the wannabe that tried so hard she almost convinced them all that she was one of them.

But in the reign of Damian Wayne, it was the place where she felt the most centered and at peace. It was her home, her cave, her perfect place in the world. No apartment or rented house had felt like that for her. It wasn't the grandness of the place that made her feel that way-it was the company.

"D?" Stephanie called, but the echo of her own voice was the only response she got. "Damian? _Olly olly oxen free!_ Which means hi and come out, because it just now occurs to me that the only hide and seek you played as a kid involved ninjas and knives."

Usually, witty jabs about his childhood made him surface from whatever project he was working on.

He wasn't on patrol because the suit was still there, and he wasn't working under the Batmobile, and he wasn't in the kitchen, and he wasn't in his room, and by the time she'd checked most of the usual spots she was verging on hysterics.

If he was gone and he _wasn't_ wearing the suit, that was bad. That meant that he was doing something that neither she nor Batman would have approved of, and _dammit_ she had just told Tim he wasn't like that. She stormed to her room, to drop her overnight bag off and zip into her suit so that she could start looking for him, but there he was.

He was asleep on her bed with Alfred. He smelled like booze, and he had several days' worth of unshaven scruff.

Poor guy. She wouldn't have pegged him for the type to have separation anxiety, but he looked and smelled like a hobo and was passed out in her bed. The facts spoke for themselves, and it made her stomach twist and flutter.

When he was asleep, he looked much younger. Even at ten years old, he hadn't looked like a child-he'd been a warrior, raised by killers to be sharper and deadlier than they were capable of being. So no, he didn't look like a child when he was asleep, but slack thoughtlessly smoothed out the lines his usual frowns and snarls dug. He slept on his stomach, one arm hugging his pillow, Alfred curled into a tidy black and white ball of fur on his back.

Stephanie gently picked up the kitten, trading the cat for a kiss on the nape of his neck. He mumbled something thick and sleep-garbled, squinting one eye open.

"...mmphmie?"

"Hi, drunkypants," she said, dropping her bag. "Did you miss me?"

"I'm not drunk," he said, trying for an authoritative tone and falling way short.

"Of course not," she said, smiling indulgently. He sighed, letting himself fall face-first into the covers.

"You can't leave like that again. Alfred was out of control. He ate a bat."

Hearing his name, Alfred stretched and started up a rusty purr. Damian shot him a dirty look.

"Well, if you can't handle raising our furry child on your own, I guess my hands are tied. I'll just have to stay with you forever."

"Good," he grumbled, mostly into the bedspread. "Anything less is unacceptable."

"You all set to pass out there? I hate to break it to you, but I don't think that I can carry you back to your room bridal-style. You're bigger than you used to be."

"I know," he said, and paused like he was trying to say something more. But he didn't know how to articulate what it was that he did want, so he just wrapped a hand around her wrist and tugged gently.

He couldn't admit to wanting her to sleep next to him, but she got it.

"Sleepover in my room it is, then," Steph announced, and let him pull her into bed with him.


	5. Chapter 5

A junkie was never satisfied. That was the nature of addiction-it was constantly escalating, never, ever lessening. It ate at a person, licking up self-control until there was nothing left. Damian knew this, because he'd been born an addict. His mother had made certain that he'd be a killer, using the most effective means possible: she'd made him like it, made him _want_ it, made it the best fucking thing in the world to him. Winning was good, but completion was better. And that's why Damian understood Zsasz in a way his father had not. He'd labeled the man a true psychotic, saying that he could not understand him because he couldn't understand what drove him to kill. He came from a happy, loving home and was a successful man; he had no 'reason' to do what he did.

But Damian understood. It wasn't about power. He didn't do it for the sexual thrill. He did it for completion. He did it because every mark that he slit into his skin made him feel godly, made him _perfect_, until he noticed a new spot that needed filled. Damian knew, because he was just an addict that had been clean for some time. A junkie can always tell another junkie.

Zsasz had escalated in a way that only a true addict could. Long gone were the days of single-digit kills, of patiently cutting one hatchmark at a time. That didn't do it for him anymore. That didn't fulfill the need. They found him in an apartment building in the Bowery. It was one of the worst parts of the city, but that didn't mean that it didn't deserve their protection-or that the residents of the filthy little apartment complex that rented by the week got what was coming to them. There was no telling how long Zsasz had been in the building. Judging by the decomp on some of the victims, it had to have been at least four or five days. In that time, he'd methodically made his way from room to room, killing everyone inside and keeping score on the fronts of each door. It wasn't the kind of place where people talked to their neighbors, and Zsasz had been quiet, _careful._

When they found him, almost everyone in the building was dead. They'd only been tipped off because of the _smell._ Damian hated him. He hated him, because he was a junkie that had never _had_ to get clean. Sparing lives never got _easy_ for him. It wasn't a switch that he could consciously flip. It was always a struggle, always an urge that he had to stomp and strangle and deny. His instincts told him to be ruthless, to be efficient, to not allow himself anything less than lethal perfection. He'd been trained to do the most damage with the fewest strokes. But, to beg forgiveness at the knee of his dead father, he had to blunt his own claws. Pulling himself short of completion was more than just difficult, it was painful. He never felt accomplished, never felt _right._ The concept of perfection had been so driven into him, he had trouble dealing with the sense of being unbalanced that plagued him when he didn't finish an enemy. It was more difficult to incapacitate a target without killing them, but it was also inelegant. He had been taught to see it as an art. That could not be overwritten, not even by his father's laws. This was the second time that he'd taken on Zsasz, and the second time that he'd known he would not be able to finish off the monster off. It was a weight, a dull resignation, and he resented that he had it hanging around his neck. He wanted to kill him. Wanted to, wanted to, wanted to. Wanted to so badly that he could imagine it, could imagine a hundred different ways of doing it. He could only think of one reason _not_ to, and it was the look of distrust he remembered in his father's eyes.

It'd been the look that'd said _if he'd kill this monster, who wouldn't he kill? If he only kills monsters, what happens if his definition of monster changes?_ It'd been the look that had solidified the knowledge that his father would never trust him, not wholly. Damn him. Damn him and his laws and his cowl and the look in his eyes when he'd died.

It'd been the look that'd said _I was right._

Zsasz's knife darted, slick as a silver fish, and cut his cheek open. The cut would knit quickly, but it notched his anger up even higher. It was the kind of rage that was almost was all-consuming.

Christ, he'd _missed it._

Damian let it take him, let it wrap him up and suffocate him.

He'd say it was an accident, he decided as he grabbed Zsasz by the throat and crashed to the dingy carpet with him.

He'd say he didn't know that he was hitting him so hard, he decided as he slammed his fists into Zsasz again and again, feeling things shatter.

He'd say he was sorry, he decided as Zsasz howled and whimpered like an animal.

He'd say it wouldn't happen again, he decided as Zsasz swallowed blood and his own teeth.

Damian barely registered when Batwoman grabbed his arm on a backsweep, keeping him from moving by latching on with all her weight. _"No!"_ she screamed, high with panic. "Stop it! Stop it! Don't do this!" But didn't she understand how much he wanted to? How _good_ it'd feel? He rounded on her, ready to scream back, but the desperation on her face stilled him.

Oh. He had another reason. Her. She was his reason. That feeling was better, better even than this. That completion wasn't destructive.

He nodded, forcing himself to relax. He took measured breaths.

"She saved you," Batman spat into Zsasz's ruined face. _"Remember that."_

Zsasz would. He stared at Batwoman from the stained carpet, unblinking until Damian hit him again.

Zsasz would remember.

* * *

><p>He woke up to screaming.<p>

Damian functioned off of very little sleep because he could plunge into REM cycles on command, but it made waking up suddenly difficult for him. He couldn't tell if the screams were in his dreams, or if they were real, or even how to get his limbs moving properly to find out. His brain didn't switch gears quickly enough, though a threat against Stephanie shot adrenaline through him. They were in his room, in his bed, so he was utterly confused; nobody could get to them here, the manor was a fortress, so what-?

He tried to locate the threat, reaching out for her, but it became apparent that there was no threat to be found. She was still asleep, curled in on herself. She'd kicked her covers off and was shaking, hands braced defensively over her head. When she breathed in, it was a trembling sob. When she breathed out, it was an uncharacteristically thin litany of _"No no no no no"_s. She breathed in tears and breathed out pleads. He was silently horrified.

He tried to touch her, but she lashed out. Surprised, he wasn't able to duck quickly enough to spare himself from a fist to the face. It rattled him-she'd hit him hard, harder than she did when they were sparring. She was fighting like she was fighting for her life.

"Stephanie!" He said loudly, grabbing her wrists and holding them on either side of her head. She struggled, sobbing. He had to pin her with his weight, blanketing her until she stopped pulling and bucking and began to pick reality away from her nightmares.

"You're safe. I'm here. You're safe." She went unexpectedly limp. Her breath left her in short, hysterical gasps. "You're safe," Damian repeated, letting go of her wrists. "It was only a nightmare."

Stephanie rolled to her side, face tucked against the crook of her elbow, and struggled not to cry. He'd never felt so helpless before. It twisted and knotted inside him and felt a lot like fear. He had no idea what to do, so he laid back down next to her, pressed close, and held her. Her breathing evened after a few minutes.

"Sorry," she said, and he could hear the embarrassment in her voice. "I didn't mean to-I thought you-_sorry."_

"You don't need to apologize. I didn't realize that you had night terrors."

"Only once in a while."

"I see."

"I'm...I'm really sorry..." 

_"Don't_. You weren't in control of yourself."

She gave a soft "Mmm" in reply, then said nothing more. He thought that she'd fallen back to sleep, but her breathing wasn't quite right. He faked it himself, hoping she'd drop off eventually. But, a half hour later, she extricated herself from his arms-slowly, carefully, trying not to wake him. She disappeared out the bedroom door, and he _wanted_ to respect that she clearly needed space, but he couldn't help himself.

Damian slipped on a pair of sweats and went to prowl around the house. Stephanie was out on the balcony, watching the grayish early-morning sky. He stood next to her, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She looked more than tired-when she wasn't lit by her usual sunny energy, she was an overworked, scarred-up woman. He forgot that, sometimes.

"You don't have to tell me, but I would like to know. Was it the crime scene we saw tonight?"

And by that, he meant: _is this_ my _fault?_

She shook her head, elbows propped on the railing and her gaze out on the distant city. The smoggy summer wind combed through her hair, teasing it.

"Nah. It's...old stuff, D. I haven't had a nightmare in a long time, but. It happens."

"Tell me," Damian said. It was phrased like a command, but sounded like a question. The _please_ was left unsaid, but it was implied.

"It's-" she faltered. "Dumb, I guess. I mean, I know you've been through worse. I know that _all_ the Bat-people have been through worse and I have no place to complain, but once in a while the...Black Mask, it...I dream about it."

"'It'?" He repeated, though he knew where she was going.

"When I got fired as Robin. When Black Mask killed me."

It wasn't that he was insensitive, not exactly. It simply didn't occur to him to ask certain things, to discuss the past. Some part of him had believed that the information contained in his fathers' files had been exhaustive. Facts were remote when they were distilled into bullet lists, so though he'd known about the gang activity that had almost claimed her life, it'd never sunken in for him. But now, rehashing it in his mind, he couldn't chase out the awful images.

Damian had read the thick dossier on Black Mask, had seen photographs of his victims. He'd been a masterful monster, a sadist who'd elevated torture to an art. He'd known that Black Mask had kidnapped her, but he'd never married the thoughts, never put it together.

"He never thought that I could be Robin," she continued, unprompted. Who 'he' was was obvious. "I don't think he wanted me to, honestly. I was just bait to get Tim to come back to him, and when he didn't come, I," she shrugged, just the smallest flex of her shoulders. "Was fired."

"I knew that you were dismissed," Damian offered, leaning on the rail next to her. "But he told me that it was because you couldn't follow orders."

Again, she shrugged. "Maybe I was kind of headstrong, yeah. I was too much work to have around, so he told me I wasn't good enough and shut me out." This, he understood. Even empathized with, though he said nothing. He could tell that there was more to the story, and that she was gearing herself up to tell it.

"So I went a little crazy, y'know? I wanted to show him-_had_ to show him-that I was good enough. I wasn't super smart like Tim or Babs, or super athletic like Dick, or super deadly like you or Cass, but I knew I could still make a difference." She stared out into the city. Dawn was brushing steel spires and glass with rosy hues. "I wanted to help, but he wouldn't let me. More than that, he crushed and humiliated me because he was pissed off and I was a convenient target. I found one of his contingency plans, and all I could think was that if I could pull it off, I'd _show him."_ He knew of the plan-had read it, when he'd pored over his father's archives. It'd seemed like a good one, though it toed the line between manipulation and strong-arming. It was wrong in the name of right, a gloved alternative to Jason Todd's handling of underworld activity. It'd seemed solid to him, meticulously thought out, so he'd always wondered what had gone so wrong. But his father had never wanted to speak of it, had given him the stiffness and sneer that meant it was completely off limits.

But she would tell him. She'd tell him, and she was the only one he would trust to give him the unbiased truth. She was one of the only ones who didn't worship at the feet of the Bat.

"What went wrong?"

"The contact who was supposed to oversee everything never showed up. Matches Malone," she said bitterly. "Nobody told me that was one of Bruce's aliases. I kept waiting for this man who didn't exist, and it all went to hell."

Damian struggled with this, with the sheer weight of his disbelief.

"But that-Matches Malone is one of his oldest aliases. Everyone knew that-"

"Everyone but _me._ None of them trusted me enough to tell me that tiny, stupid thing. I didn't deserve even that much."

"That's not true. You're incredibly trustworthy. You proved that-"

"To you, D," she said tiredly. "Proved that to you, and to O, and to Cass. They were the first to ask what was going on when I went missing."

This troubled him. This troubled him deeply, because he couldn't believe that this had gone on-and that all of the blame had rested on her shoulders. Yes, she had been at fault, but so had his father. How could he not trust her enough to tell her about Matches Fucking Malone?

"Missing?"

"Black Mask got me. He had me for days." Her face screwed up, half out of anger and half to stave off her own tears. "He had me tied up to spreader bars. I stood for two days while he got his shits and giggles in. Soon as he left me alone, I freed myself, but I was...I knew I was hurt, badly. I wouldn't get far, so I decided to take him out when he got back. I got the jump on him-even had a gun to his head. But I couldn't pull the trigger, so. He beat me, shot me, and kicked me down the stairs. I did die, technically."

That sadist had tortured her for days, and Batman had not tried to save her. He understood that his priorities lay with the gang activity, but he hadn't even spared one of their own to search for her. He was so furious, he could barely breathe.

"If it had been me," he hissed, gripping the railing so tightly his joints ached. "I would have wanted to kill him. Him, and Drake. I would never have forgiven them."

"That's you," Stephanie said, sniffing hard and rubbing her eyes with the back of one hand. She took a shaky breath, and when she exhaled she sounded calm again. "Not me. I realized that I wasn't going to get a thumbs up from them-not ever-but that didn't matter. I could still fight. And I chose to fight, and I'm _still_ fighting, and if they don't like it they can kiss my cute bat-butt."

"I approve of you," Damian said, because he didn't know what else he _could_ say. He wouldn't apologize on the behalf of those who hadn't seen her for the warrior she was. He knew what it was like to accept that you would never truly be accepted.

She touched his shoulder with light fingertips. "Let it go, D. I have. It's okay-really. I survived, and I'm here, and if a nightmare every once in a while is the worst that I have to deal with, I consider myself _lucky."_ He let the tension drain, hands loosening their death-grip on the rail, but he couldn't let it go, not totally.

That was her, not him.

She grabbed his ear and pulled until he muttered a curse and leaned down far enough for her to kiss.

"I'm going to suit up and go for a run," she said once they came up for air. "Don't worry about tagging along. Go get some rest-I'll be back in an hour and make some waffles."

"Fine," Damian said.

But he had zero intention of letting her go out alone-not in her emotional state-but what she didn't see couldn't hurt him.

* * *

><p>There was a saying about staying out of dark alleys, but Steph hadn't ever paid enough attention to remember it. But it'd been a cautionary saying, like look before you leap-which, actually, wasn't something she did very often, either. The moral of the story was, Stephanie Brown wasn't very good at being cautious, and once in a while it bit her directly in the ass. If she'd been more careful, she would've seen that shiny red head a mile away. But she hadn't, and now Jason Todd was standing not ten feet in front of her, a dead gangster at his feet and a gun in one hand.<p>

Oh boy.

"Well," Jason said brassily, amused. "You're not the Bat that I was looking for, but I can dig it. How's the good ol' fight going? Hanging in there?" The gangster groaned, raising a hand toward her sluggishly. "One sec." He shot him again, and he went still. "Sorry about that. I was just wrapping up some loose ends here. Anyway, how've you been? Good?"

It took a lot for her not to make a break for it. She hadn't brought half of the ordinance she usually carried when she went out, and she doubted she'd be able to take him even if she'd been armed to the teeth. All she'd wanted to do was swing around some buildings, maybe kick around a drug dealer or two, and clear her head. Was that too much to ask for? Apparently, it was.

"Great," Steph said, managing to sound much calmer than she felt. "Just great. You know. Just. Doing my thing."

"I hear you're the littlest Batman's partner," Jason continued, kneeling and pushing the dead body toward the trashbags lining the alley. "How's that working out for you?"

Steph could hear her heart drumming in her ears, but she kept her voice steady.

"If you have Wayne problems, I feel bad for you, son. But I got ninety-nine problems and a Bat ain't one."

She wasn't making jokes because she was comfortable. No, it was the exact opposite: she was making jokes because she was scared witless, and that was the only way she knew how to cope. Jason's laughter just made her insides jitter.

"I need to come clean," he said, strolling closer to her. "'Cause I feel bad. I've known you were around-knew you existed. But I never tracked you down to talk, 'cause I didn't think you were worth my precious time. Now, though, _now_ I regret it. I like you. I like you a lot."

Jason Todd liked her. Jason Todd liked her a lot. Steph wanted to burst into hysterical laughter. She couldn't handle this. Not right now. Not when she was overtired and still keyed up from nightmares full of blood and sharp edges. He was close enough that she could smell him-cologne and cigarette smoke and sulfur and leather, all cut by the acidic burn of gasoline. He smelled like a bomb. Walked like one, too.

"I gotta go. I have a thing. A justice thing," Stephanie said, already reaching for her grappling gun. He grabbed her wrist before she even registered his movement-he was fast.

"Justice'll wait, sugartits. I want to talk. You and me, we-" 

_"LET HER GO, TODD."_

She wasn't sure if she was relieved or frustrated to hear the roar of Damian's voice. He wasn't imitating Bruce-no, that was all him, all his rage. Jason hit her, a flat palm against her back that kicked the air out of her lungs.

Batman dropped down not a half second after. He came down fast and hard, boots planting squarely on Jason's chest. Both men hit the cement and skidded, a mass of muscular limbs and heavy fabric.

Jason came out on top. He straddled Damian and started punching. She knew he could kill him. She knew he probably would. And she knew that just wasn't an option.

When Damian had hit him, his gun had gone skittering away. Without taking the time to really think about what she was doing, she grabbed it. Taking the safety off, she pointed the gun straight up and fired it, twice.

Jason froze, arm cocked back and fist still doubled up, and looked at her. Steph pointed the gun at him.

"Go," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You have five seconds to get off him and go. If you don't, know that I won't miss and I won't lose sleep over it. P.S.? Call me sugartits again and I'll make sure there won't be any Little Red Hoods in your future."

She wasn't sure if she would shoot him, really. Wasn't sure if she _could._

But, thankfully, he didn't know if she would, either.

For a few seconds, the only sound was the staggered gasps of their breathing. Damian turned his head to the side and spat bubbly blood and saliva. Then, Jason unfurled his fists and held them up. He stood, stepping away. There was a tense moment, then he jumped and grabbed the bottom of a fire escape. Agile as a cat, he swung his way to the roof.

"Call me, kids!" Jason shouted before he disappeared back into the night. He held his thumb and pinkie to his ear, miming a phone. "You got my number!"

And she did, she realized when she undressed later. When he'd hit her, just before Damian crashed in, he hadn't been trying to push her away. He'd been slapping a sticker on the back of her cape. It was white and rectangular-a name tag. It said _HELLO, MY NAME IS:_ in even print. Below it, he'd filled in **ROBIN** in sharpie, as well as a phone number.

It gave her an idea, but it wasn't one that she particularly liked.

* * *

><p>He might have been hesitant to introduce sex into their relationship, but once they got started Damian was incredibly pleased by it and wondered why he'd been hesitant in the first place. There'd been a definite learning curve, a lot of awkwardness and miscommunication, but Stephanie had been patient and he'd been an eager student. He learned what was good, what he liked and what she liked, and assimilated the knowledge very quickly. He was, after all, a <em>genius.<em> It didn't take them long to master what she called the 'basics' and move on to more 'advanced' techniques. She liked surprising him with new things, and he liked surprising her with how well he picked things up and put them into use. Oftentimes, it was a welcome reprieve from the rigors of keeping the streets clean.

It made him happy. That wasn't something that he had been able to contextualize before, when he'd been young and struggling with abstracts. _Happiness_ had been synonymous with _winning_, with _accomplishments_, with _positive appraisal._ His definition had been limited by his mother, because he was easier to control that way. But now, happiness meant many things. It meant sleeping next to Stephanie at night, making her laugh. It meant arguing with his stupid cat, having him choose to sit on his lap and purr. It meant suffering through Disney movies so that she'd lean against him. It meant bringing her to toe-curling orgasm and lording his accomplishment over her the next day. He was happy. There were things that he struggled with, things that made him angry, but for the most part he was _happy._

Happiness meant waffles with too much syrup, just as much as it meant being so comfortable with her that he'd allow her to tie him up. He knew that he could get out of the bindings if he really wanted to, but the fact still remained that he'd willingly let her tie his wrists to the bedposts with the same rope that they used in training scenarios. He liked it, which was new. Then again, she had a firm grasp on what he liked and usually knew it before he even did.

"Do you trust me?" The question surprised him. He would have thought that the answer should be obvious-he _had_ allowed her to tie him up.

"Are you daft?" Damian demanded, rolling his eyes.

"Say it."

"I shouldn't have to," he groused, pulling on the rope around his wrists. "You have me tied to my own bedposts. Isn't that enough proof that I trust you?"

"Say it," she insisted, close to his ear. It shivered through him. "I'm going to do something, and I have to know that you trust me enough to let me."

"I trust you," Damian said solemnly. She could have gotten him to say just about anything at that point, really. "You have my word."

"Good." And then she slid off of him, grabbing her boots from under the bed. She put them on, tucking knives between her calf and the leather. Steph pulled her coat on, zipping it up. What the _hell_ was she doing? Where did she think she was going? She didn't honestly plan to _leave him_ tied up, did she?"So, listen carefully. I'm going to go. I have something that I need to wrap up, and I can't have you involved. You're not to leave the manor under any circumstance." He gaped, bewildered.

She'd tricked him.

She'd actually, successfully tricked him.

"Stephanie-" Leaning over him, she pressed her fingertips to his mouth.

"You said that you trust me. You _swore_ that you trust me. So please. Please, trust me. If you don't untie yourself by the time I get back, we'll pick up where we left off. Girl scout's honor."

His father might have thought her a subpar strategist and a clumsy tactician, but the part of him that wasn't furious was impressed. She'd thought this through. His word was his bond, even more so than the ties around his wrists. He wouldn't go back on his word, even though he wanted to already.

"You will be back."

"Of course I will. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."

"You say that every time you know that you're in over your head," he said plaintively. He bit his lip against what he wanted to say. "Don't do this."

Stephanie kissed him. She took her time. She made her point.

"Damian. Look at me." Steph cupped his face with both hands, blue eyes intent. She stroked the curves of his cheekbones with her thumbs. "I love you. _Trust me._"

Three little words. They'd never said them, never traded them, because to do so felt like a jinx. Despite it all, neither loved easily. Stephanie gave her love freely to almost anyone she came in contact with, but this was different. Anyone she might have said that to-her parents, Drake, maybe even his father-hadn't told her that they loved her, even if they had returned her stunning, sunny adoration. To trot those words out was begging for an awkward silence without reciprocation.

She'd said it to him, and she'd meant it. Her love, her hope, was a gift. He would treat it as such. The trust that she put in him was almost overwhelming.

"And I-" Damian struggled with the words. "And I-I, you."

The smile she gave him was worth it.

"I'll be back," Stephanie said, and he prayed that _those_ three words were not the last ones that she'd say to him.

* * *

><p>She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but the man at the booth near the back wasn't it. Jason was the cautionary tale every subsequent Robin got as a bedtime story: <em>this is what happens when you cross the line, this is what happens when you don't listen, this is what happens when you go against the wishes of the Batman.<em> Jason was more myth, more monster, than a person. She'd seen pictures of him, but they'd only been cause and effects, before and afters, photos of a toothy little boy with bare, skinny legs and surveillance shots of a man in a reflective red hardhat for a head. She'd seen the latter for herself. The man in the booth was neither. He was _big_, filling his half of the booth, and he wore a simple black leather jacket. He needed a haircut, his riotously red hair curling around his collar, but other than that he looked normal.

The way he flicked a look over his shoulder the moment she zeroed in on him screamed otherwise. He had training, and he was good. He didn't have to look bunched up and ready for action, because it was all second nature to him. He wasn't a natural like Dick or Damian, but he'd had a thorough education in the school of hard knocks.

As a graduate herself, Stephanie knew a fellow alumnus.

She slid into the seat across from him with a smile. She kept her smile genuine and her composure even by mentally cataloguing what she had on her: a KA-BAR tucked into the back of her sweatshirt, an Italian stiletto switchblade in the front pocket, and a weighted throwing knife in each boot. She knew which was quickest to grab, and which hand she'd use to grab it. If there was one thing that Bruce had taught her, it was that there was peace in preparation. And if there was one thing that Damian had taught her, it was that knives were very handy.

"I thought you were kidding," Jason said, by way of greeting. "When you said you wanted to take me out for a milkshake."

"I never kid about milkshakes," she said. He was even bigger up close, which prompted her to wonder what, exactly, she'd been thinking. 

_Milkshakes with Jason Todd-yet another stunning Brown strategy. This one's going in the scrapbook. Was this worth pissing Damian off? God, oh God, I hope so._

He smiled, folding his hands neatly together on the table. "So, how was your day? Been pointing guns at anyone new?"

"Oh, you know how it is. Always with the punching and running around. Crime never sleeps."

"Not in Gotham, it doesn't," he agreed. "But I find it keeps me on my toes. Always something new-no such thing as the doldrums in _my_ office."

A waitress approached their table, two milkshakes in hand. One was strawberry, the other vanilla. She set them down with a smile.

"Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"We're all set. Thanks, pudding-pop," Jason said brightly. The waitress' cheeks pinkened and she burbled a little nervous laugh as she walked away. "I went ahead and ordered for you. Didn't think we'd get long to chat. Hope vanilla's fine."

"It is. Do you always flirt with teenagers?" Steph asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Nah," he said, sipping his drink. "That was a _self-esteem_ boost. Notice that nasty bruise on her cheek?"

She nodded. "Mmhmm."

"Her boyfriend's got a bad habit of gettin' mean and gettin' handsy when he's all coked up. All her friends told her to go to a shelter, but _man_, that's a hard decision for a sixteen year old runaway to make. Good news is, the decision was taken out of her hands. Boyfriend hasn't been seen in three days and it's like life's all fresh and new for her. No more getting slapped around, no more taking dick when she doesn't want it. Ain't it grand?"

"Lucky girl," she said, staring at her milkshake. What else could she have said? He'd just admitted to killing a man-an abusive, low-life drug-dealer. He'd saved her, but...ugh, the stickiness of the situation gave her a headache.

"I'm a regular guardian angel."

"Uh-huh," she said flatly, twisting her straw between her thumb and forefinger. "So, are we going to talk, or are we going to blow the evening on criminal activity show-n'-tell?"

"I thought we might compare notes," he said, chin in his hand. "Heard you got up close and personal with a crowbar. Heck, I even heard a rumor that you died, once. We're just so darn _alike_, I wanted to get to know you. So tell me, little sis. Tell me all about you."

She knew that anything she said, anything she gave him, could be used against her. But at the same time, she knew that if she lied, he'd know. If she wanted to keep him loose and talking, she'd have to give up the goods.

"My name's Stephanie. I'm twenty-seven, and I've been wearing a mask for twelve years. I've been the Spoiler, I've been Robin, I've been Batgirl, and I've been fired from all three positions."

"And you're Batwoman now," he added, sounding thoughtful. "That's a lot of time spent wearing a bat on your tits. That's funny, considering it hasn't done you any favors."

Her nostrils flared, hard, but she managed to keep her temper in check. Guys like Jason purposefully baited people. She couldn't let him get to her, couldn't pull out any violence, because he'd pay her back triple.

"Says you. Being a Bat is the best thing I've done." 

_"Huh,"_ Jason said, a sharp exhalation. She jumped reflexively. "Really? The _best_ thing you've done? By whose estimation? Yours, or the big Bat himself? And I'm not talking about the kid; I mean _the_ Bat." Because for them, there was only one real Bat. Even Damian felt that way, and he was the closest any of them had gotten to being Bruce Wayne.

"I lost track of how many times _the_ Bat told me that crimefighting was the worst thing I've ever done."

"And yet, here you are," he said, gesturing at her. "Batman with a feminine touch. A pretty pretty princess who carries knives to a milkshake date. He made you what you are and then _trashed_ you, all because you're not a boy with black hair and blue eyes. Doesn't that get to you?"

Her guts twisted. Lesson learned: there was no such thing as concealed weapons when it came to Jason Todd.

"I...look. This is how I see it," Steph said, spreading her napkin out on the table. She pulled the lid off a pen with her teeth and started drawing. She drew a wide circle, then a smaller circle inside it. The outer circle got ubiquitous bat ears and goofy eyes. Underneath, she wrote, _THE BATBRAIN._ "Bruce had to justify himself. Like, a lot. I think that he wondered sometimes if he was as crazy as the people he fought, you know? So he had to draw lines." Jason didn't reply, but sucked noisily on his milkshake. Steph started sectioning off parts of the Batbrain and labeling them. "He had two rules for his Robins." She wrote _JUSTICING_ in the largest section. "One: no killing. That's the line he drew that separated him from the rest of the crazies. If he could stop them without killing them, it meant he couldn't be faulted for being a vigilante. He wasn't totally circumventing the judicial system by throwing down Batlaw." In the second largest section, she wrote _PROTOCOL_. "Rule number two: do as I say, not as I do." In smaller sections, she wrote, _LEGACY, DEAD PARENTS,_ and _PERFECTION_. "That rule was a softer one. He only trotted it out on the Robins that questioned him. He couldn't have some perky kid in tights questioning his methods, because he spent enough time questioning them himself." In the tiny, tiny space left over, she managed to fit in _ALL THE FEELINGS_. "That's why Tim was always his favorite. He worshipped him, so when Bats barked he jumped. I'm not saying that he didn't care, but I think that sometimes, he didn't know how to. He wasn't reading normal across the board. None of us do. If we were normal, we'd be construction workers and housewives and doctors. But no, we play it like we're badcops and every day is Halloween. Personally? I've coped with it. I am what I am, and I've got a mean right hook and a thirst for justicing."

She spun the napkin illustration around so that he could read it. His eyebrows arched up toward his hairline.

"What the hell kind of Robin _are_ you?" Jason asked with a laugh. It was deep, sudden, and real.

"The kind that gets fired," she deadpanned. "So look. I made you a visual aid and everything. Bats 1.0 didn't have it in him to understand us. There's literally no way he could accept us for what we were-because you had dicey morals, I was a mouthy girl, and Damian was born with an innate 'stab first, ask questions later' policy. When things existed outside of _this_-" Steph circled the Batbrain several times before recapping the pen. "-he didn't know how to handle it. He cared about us and he tried, but we're not yesmen. He only accepted the gray areas that he defined, and we challenged him. So-so what I'm saying, what my _point_ is, is that I don't agree with what you do. I don't think killing is the answer, but I _do_ know that I can't convince you of that. I know that if I exhaust time and resources trying to take you down, I'm going to lose-and I can't lose, not when we're the only ones keeping this city from eating itself alive. I also know that treating you as less than human isn't going to fix anything."

Jason finished his milkshake, wiping a smudge from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. Said thumb got cleaned off on the napkin.

"Y'know, I thought that I was going to have to preach to _you,"_ he drawled, leaning back in his chair. "I thought I was going to have to tell you that the big bad Bat had pulled the wool over your eyes this whole time. But you? Princess, you _already_ get it."

She wasn't sure if she liked that or not. She wasn't sure if the fact that she'd _gotten_ Jason Todd was a good thing or not. It was what it was.

"So, tell me," Jason continued, voice velvety low. "Who did it to you? Who brought on the epiphany? I mean, I can _guess_, if you want me to. It'd be like Clue. Who killed you, with what, and where? For me, it was the Joker in the abandoned warehouse with the crowbar."

Steph's mouth had gone dry. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Black Mask. Power drill. Knives. A gun. Kicked me down stairs. A torture sampler platter."

He hummed thoughtfully. "Everything but the kitchen sink. And you died."

"Legally and medically, yeah."

He steepled his fingers. "Tell me. What was it like?"

What was it like? It was clawing, it was suffocating, it was beyond words and descriptors. It was violent enough that she still woke up fighting and screaming once in a while. It never lost its punch.

"Dying wasn't bad," Stephanie said after a long pause. "It was getting there and coming back that was hard."

"Was _he_ there?"

This was personal. She knew he was stacking it against his death and Bruce's reaction. She knew, so she knew that she could be honest and let the bitterness out. He'd eat it all up.

"Yeah. In my last words, I asked him if it'd all been a trick, or if I'd really been Robin. And he said yes. He said that I wouldn't be forgotten. He lied, and I flatlined happy."

"And he didn't kill Black Mask for what he did to you."

"No."

"And he didn't come to save you himself."

"No. He didn't."

The corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smirk. The answer had satisfied him. "But you came back."

The journey back was the hardest part. She hadn't been remembered, hadn't been wanted. It'd broken her heart over and over, but she hadn't let it _stop_ her.

"Africa was good to me."

_"Africa?"_

"I live an exciting life, what can I say?"

When Jason looked at her, his eyes were almost black. His pupils were blown, only rimmed by the thinnest edge of blue.

"Aren't you just something else." He rubbed a gloved hand over his chin contemplatively, then checked his watch with a turn of his wrist. "I'm surprised. About you, yeah, but also that little brother hasn't come crashing in here yet. I was giving him fifteen minutes before he put his boots through the door."

"That," Stephanie said, chin raised. "Is because I tied him up and left him at home. I don't mess around when it's get-shit-done time. I've slapped Bruce when he was expecting me to hug him. Don't kid yourself, Jason-nobody intimidates me."

Jason winked. "Keep the pimp hand strong. And _tied him up?_ Nice. I think I'm starting to see why the old man had trouble with you. Calling him on his shit _and_ boinking his kid? You've got balls, cupcake. Iron clad."

She grinned savagely. "You'd better _believe it."_

She was breathing easier, now. She'd never allowed herself to rehash what had happened, to voice how she really felt about her legacy-or the lack thereof. But it'd been the perfect pot-sweetener, and now Jason was talking to her casually, really engaging her. She'd passed whatever battery of tests he'd had primed for her, and she hadn't even had to stab him to get her point across. Bruce had told her once that Jason couldn't be reasoned with. And maybe he couldn't have been reasoned with, no-not when your version of 'reasoning' was 'my way or the highway'.

"So, let's make a deal," he said, loosely crossing his arms over his chest. "If I'm reading your feel-good talk correctly, you're not interested in my newsletter, but you and the littlest Bat are gonna let me keep publishing it, so long as I don't flood the market."

"I'm asking that you don't challenge Damian head-on. Do what you do, but keep it on the DL."

"You're condoning murder," Jason said, catching her gaze and holding it unblinkingly. He was looking for a reaction-she knew it.

She didn't give him one. She didn't blink, didn't look away, didn't back down.

"No. I'm accepting that I can't stop you. I'm making peace with that. I know that you're not insane, and that you're not going to start killing innocents for shits and giggles. You do it your way, and we'll do it our way. Gotham's too far gone for us to persecute you."

"And even if it was all sunshine and buttercups, you wouldn't." He leaned forward, elbows on the able. "Because you and me, we're the same story with different endings. Baa baa, black sheep."

Steph swallowed, with difficulty.

"_Anyhow._ I'll play your game, and if you ever need a pair of dirty hands, you know who to call." He leaned across the table and kissed her cheek. It was a dry kiss, chaste. His stubble rasped against her skin.

Maybe it should have worried her that everyone seemed to be trying to give her a way 'out'.

"Yeah," she said. She couldn't help but feel like she'd made a deal with the devil.

"Furthermore, if you ever wanna _upgrade_, I'm single. Sure, the kid's precocious, but I've got experience. Just ask his mom."

Steph blinked rapidly. Wait. Damian's mom, Talia?

"No way."

"Yes way," Jason said, digging into his pocket. He left a generous tip on the table. "I live an exciting life, what can I say? There's not a Boy Wonder around who doesn't have a thing for older women. Dick and Barbara, me and Talia, Damian and you-shit, Timmy's the only one who broke formation."

"Tell me something I don't know," she sighed, and slipped out of the booth.

* * *

><p>Damian had never had a problem with anxiety. He'd always controlled the situations he was a part of, always took solace in the knowledge that there was very little that he could not handle. He had been trained thoroughly and was a genius in every definition. No one scared him, and he'd overcome any childish fears long before he'd stopped being a child. He couldn't be killed-what could possibly strike fear into him? He'd never had problems with anxiety, because he had very few people in his life that he cared about. He didn't fear for himself, but he did fear for those people who <em>weren't<em> immortal.

There were only a handful of people whose deaths would affect him, but those special few had rooted deeply inside of him. So, to know that Stephanie was doing something that would likely get her killed-and not being able to go after her-slammed him into a panicked mode he rarely reached. He'd stared at the ceiling for a half hour after she left, but his patience had worn thin. He couldn't banish the thoughts of Black Mask, of Croc, of all the people who had hurt her in the past.

He couldn't get her screaming out of his head. The ghost note rang in his ears. She'd tied him up neatly-and not just with the wrist restraints. Stephanie knew him better than anyone, so she'd known how seriously he took his own word. He had said that he trusted her, and she'd used that to lock him in place. If he broke his word and went after her, she would be furious with him. If he did as she'd told him to do and she died as a result, he'd be furious with himself. Damian didn't know what to do. His thoughts frantically chased their own tails, giving him no solution. This brand of helplessness was even worse than what he'd felt when she'd been plagued by nightmares-at least then, he had been able to convince himself that touching her had helped her somehow.

With this, there was nothing he could do.

Damian tried to take out his frustration on the training room, but punching and hitting the training dummies hadn't drained the fear out of him. It'd only keyed him up further, adrenaline giving way to shakes and nausea. He threw up twice. It was shameful. He'd created such a weakness for himself-such a terrible blind spot. If he were smart, he would cut the connection to her off at the quick. That was what his father would have done.

But he knew he wouldn't.

"Hey! Batsy!" An all-too-familiar voice rang through the cave. Despite her size, the woman could make her voice boom. He winced, pinching the bridge of his nose against his building migraine. "Come out, come out, wherever you are! I got enchiladas from Mama-you've got twenty seconds to ditch the shadows and come get 'em!"

The Bats and the Lanterns had a colorful history. Each thought the other slightly insane, and their partnerships were tenuous at best. The new generation strove to be more welcoming and inclusive of other capes and cowls, but Damian consciously resisted their efforts. He did not want to team up. He did not want to be invited to _picnics._ He did not want to be included in their asinine and poorly organized group. Most of them respected that. Many wrote him off as being too much of a sociopath to warrant inclusion, much less their friendship. But there were a few who tried, no matter how curtly he rebuffed them.

"Dami-_que?"_ Milagro Reyes was one of the few people-if not the only one-who willingly visited him. He tolerated her presence. Maybe even liked her. When she brought him food, at least.

Damian glared at her balefully. He was too emotionally wrung out for threats.

"Sssso," Milagro said, sitting down in _his_ chair in front of the monitor and crossing her legs. "You look like crap. Wanna talk about it?"

"Please," he said haughtily, pouring himself a glass of water. He took a sip, swished it around, and spit in the sink. It didn't quite get the sour taste out of his mouth, but it helped. "I have better things to do than to indulge you in talk of 'feelings'. Isn't that what you have Iris for? I was under the impression that all lesbians do is talk about their twice-damned _feelings."_

And maybe he deserved being slapped by a giant green fist made of energy. Maybe he did. Maybe he could even admit that he did. But it still nettled him.

He couldn't say that Guy Gardner had taught her well, but he had taught her _thoroughly._

"You're the kind of offensive that's just funny," she told him cheerfully. The hand patted the top of his head before disippating back into her ring. "Irey said to say hi. And for the record, _pendejo_, we do a lot more than just talk about our feelings. Dating a speedster is like having a sportscar you can make out with. You need to get out of your cave and experience some culture once in a while. You, me, Irey, and Steph could go on a double date."

Damian rubbed the cheek she'd smacked, grimacing. "Absolutely not. I would rather die. Did you have a goal behind this visit, or have you come solely to insult and disgust me in my own home?"

"I'm doing community service," Milagro said, spinning in the chair. "I know _your_ girlfriend can't cook to save her life, so I brought you some grub. It's my good deed for the day-other than saving the universe. I did that, too." 

_Lanterns._ Uppity bastards who specialized in fighting crime with fashion accessories. If they hadn't been such effective fighters, he would have had no respect at all for them. As it stood, he had just a modicum of respect, but it was outweighed by his annoyance. He could deal with them so long as they stuck to arresting aliens and left _his_ city alone.

"Thank you," Damian said. He was too tired to fight with her. "Was that the response you were fishing for?"

She cocked her head to the side, looking at him intently.

"Yeah. And you said it, which is weird."

"I'm fully capable of thanking others," he said, running a hand through his hair. "And I just chose to do so. Take it and be grateful."

"That's not how thank yous wo-kitty!"

And people wondered why he didn't like Green Lanterns. Alfred, hearing voices, had peeked around the corner. Ever the attention whore, he padded to Milagro and rubbed against her leg, lifting his chin to be scratched. She did so with happy little chips and the mumbling nonsense-talk one used when addressing a baby. He shot Alfred a look. _Traitorous twice-damned harlot._

"Are we through?" Damian asked, exasperated. "I have things I need to do."

Using the highly selective hearing of the female of the species, she continued to gush at the cat and ignore him.

"Who's the sweetest little furball? You are. Yesss you are. You and your sweet little whiskery face. Your daddy's a hardass with a Bat attitude, but you're just the most precious fuzzy soul. _Yessss you are."_

"Reyes," he ground out, crossing his arms over his chest. "You will stop addressing him in that tone immediately. Thank you for the meal-and there, I've said it twice now-but you should go. I-"

The elevator notification pinged on the monitor. She was back. She was back, and she was alone, and she was okay, and everything Damian had been thinking was pushed out of his head by his swelling relief. When the doors opened, he cut the distance of the cave and pulled her into his arms before she could so much as say "Hi, Milagro".

Her hair smelled like night air and menthol cigarettes. She was uninjured. If he'd believed in God, he would have been thanking him over and over.

"Don't ever do that to me again," he hissed, holding her crushingly close.

"Is that adventure I hear calling me?" Milagro said, a hand cupped around her ear. She looked at the cat in her arms. "I think that it is, Alfred. Hold on, adventure, I'm coming!" Setting the cat down, she spared Damian and Stephanie a brilliant smile. "I'll leave you two to hug it out."

"I despise Lanterns," Damian huffed once she was out of earshot. "Utterly _despise."_

Stephanie just shook her head, baffled. "Social call?"

"Unfortunately." Damian took a deep breath, squeezing her upper arms. "Where did you go? Why did you do that to me? I can't _believe_ that you would pull a stunt like that one. I won't allow it again."

"I know," she said, looking truly apologetic. "And I'm sorry. I feel terrible, D. I really do. I just couldn't think of any other way to bench you."

"You shouldn't have had to 'bench' me," he growled, his ire rising. "I'm much stronger than you are."

"And I know that, too, Mr. Machismo. But this wasn't an arm-wrestling competition. It was a heart-to-heart, and you can't do those unless the situation calls for literally ripping hearts out."

"You didn't answer me. What did you _do?"_ There was a note of his father in his tone, though he didn't mean for it to be there. It was habit, now. Steph didn't look away.

"I took care of the Jason situation."

He suddenly felt like he was going to be sick all over again. "You did _what?"_

"I talked to him, and we made a deal. Simple as that."

"Impossible," Damian snapped. "That's impossible. You cannot reason with him. I don't know what possessed you to think that you could go toe to toe to him, you _stupid_ woman! He's-you just-"

"I could and I did," Steph said, her voice hard. "I got results. Call me stupid again and I'll deck you. If I hadn't offered him the olive branch, he would have continued to fuck with us just for the sake of fucking with us. So don't you dare tell me that I made the wrong call. I did what Bruce couldn't-what you couldn't. I _talked to him."_

His father didn't forget. He forgave, but he never let you forget when you messed up. Damian knew this better than anyone. "

Are you...are you positive?"

"He gave me his word. If we don't try to lock him up, he won't target us. He spent a lot of years trying to make a point to Bruce, but," she sighed. "We already read him loud and clear."

"But," he said, still reeling. "He will continue to kill."

"Yeah, he will. What he does is monstrous, but that doesn't mean that he's a monster. He has his code of ethics and he doesn't stray from it. The city's dying, D. What we're doing is triage. We have to choose what is worth fighting, and he just isn't."

He nodded woodenly, dragging her to his chest again. Damian fully understood the concept of fighting against-and _for-_-the things worth fighting.

* * *

><p>Forgiveness was not discussed, but it was implied. She swore up and down that she wouldn't tie him up and leave him again, and he promised he wouldn't follow her anywhere against her wishes. Relationships were all about balance-even one as strange as theirs. They were both worn out from stress, so they dropped into bed earlier than usual. Alfred curled up at their feet, and they tried to sleep.<p>

Sleep didn't come. They laid there for hours, changing positions every so often with huffed breaths and sighs, but sleep just wasn't in the cards.

"What happened, Damian?" Stephanie asked the dark, her voice so low and soft that he thought that he'd imagined it at first. She found his hand underneath the covers, her damnably small hand fitting neatly into his palm. "Why did you leave for so long?"

He debated pretending that he was asleep. He thought about saying that he didn't know. He briefly, _briefly_ contemplated lying. He'd known that this would come up someday, that it was only eventual, but he hadn't had a lie primed and ready to go.

The truth fell out instead.

"I got lost," he admitted hollowly.

"Lost? Seriously?"

"Yes. I was traveling, and I became lost. It took me some time to find myself again."

"Tim asked me," Steph said. "He said he didn't understand how I could have lived with you for a year and still not know what happened to Bruce and Dick-or even where you'd been for all those months. Every time I talk to him, he asks. Closure, I guess."

"Drake should give up," he snapped, more venom in his voice than he'd meant to inject. "Neither of them will be coming back. Not this time."

She was silent. He could feel her unvoiced question, the logical followup that she was trying to keep in. _How do you know?_

"My father was a proud man. I'm only giving him the respect in death that he demanded in life." Her sigh was bone-deep, fanning warmly over the side of his neck.

"You know how it looks, don't you? _Not_ telling them implicates you. Babs-"

"Believes me to be a monster. Yes, I know this."

"More than that, she refuses to have anything to do with you." Her voice petered off into a mumble. "Or to have anything to do with anyone who'll have anything to do with you."

That fissure, that absence in Stephanie's life, suddenly made sense.

The Commissioner had given her a choice, and she'd made it.

Guilt pushed the air out of his lungs.

"He was shot," Damian said finally. Each word took effort. It had to be found, pried, and pulled. "During the riot. He and I had been arguing, because he'd reprimanded me for use of force. I was insisting that I was doing what was necessary, that we would be able to save more my way, and I was-I was so _angry_ with him, so tired with being told that my every move was unacceptable."

Stephanie said nothing. Her hand tightened, squeezing his.

"It was luck. Mad, horrific luck. The angle, the timing-everything. Father was shot. He bled out in minutes. There was nothing that I could do to save him. I don't believe that he knew he was dying, even as he did."

He let the words hang. He could feel their weight.

"No one can know that the Batman was killed with a gunshot, as easily as any other man. He survived too much, accomplished too much, _became_ too much for his legacy to end ignobly. It would have taken his teeth and softened the impact he had made. I couldn't allow it."

"So all these years, you've let people think it was you," she said, voice hushed. "Because you didn't want him to lose face."

"The truth won't change their opinions of me. They decided what I was years ago. To them, I will always be an animal. And I don't care. Let them think what they want."

"But they hate you, and they shouldn't. If they knew, they _wouldn't,_ they'd-"

"I'm very comfortable with being hated-I have been for most of my life. I'm intimately familiar with human nature, so I know that the truth would change nothing."

That statement staled in the dark. It was as sour as bile.

"Dick knew, didn't he?"

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Yes. But he respected my wishes and did not tell anyone. The truth died with him."

"Died?" she repeated, and the yawning hole in his chest that split was as painful as a physical wound.

"Dick left without telling me. He left-he gave up the cowl-because the stupid, stupid man thought he could save-" _Me._ Dick had left because he'd been positive that he could find someone who could save him, some loophole in his deal that could be exploited. "-the city. After Father died, it all crumbled. I went after him, followed his trail for a few weeks, but then it-"

He vividly remembered the first week that he'd traveled blindly, the first week that he'd had no trail, no sense of direction, nothing to go off of. It'd been endless panic, choking denial. He hadn't wanted to believe that there was no trail to follow, that the trail had gone dead, that _his brother_ was dead, but the facts had been clear and Damian had been a born pragmatist.

It had still taken him a year to stop looking for Dick. He'd wanted to believe that he'd show up one day without warning, his smile indulgently forgiving. He'd wanted him to squeeze his shoulder and tell him good news, that he'd found a way out for him, that everything could be fixed. He'd known better, but he'd wanted it so _badly._

"There was nothing to follow. Grayson is gone. I searched for a year, but I...he's gone, and it's my fault. That's why I had to return, why I _had_ to take the cowl. My father and my b-Grayson, both of them, they died because of me-because of my shortcomings. Becoming the Batman was...penance."

He hadn't known any other way to beg for forgiveness. Wearing the cowl, following the Law of the Bat even though he knew he wasn't worthy of it, had felt like punishment enough.

"Oh, God," Stephanie said, and he was glad that he couldn't see her face. He couldn't have handled seeing the disgust in her eyes, the _knowing_ that he was exactly what Ivy had said: allelopathic. He was deadly poisonous to everything around him. If he were any less selfish, he would push her away.

But he couldn't. He needed her. She was the only thing that kept his head above water, the only reason he had to keep the code. He despised himself for it, hated himself so deeply that the emotion could only be described as _black._

The mattress dipped as she sat up, moving closer to him. She was clumsy in the dark, fingers skating over him as she tried to find his face, his hands. Steph's breathing was ragged; he got a knee to the stomach as she all but crawled over him. It was like she couldn't get close enough, couldn't decide what to touch or hold. "Listen to me," she whispered fiercely, though there wasn't anyone else to hear them.

_"Listen._ Nobody can blame you. None of this was your fault. What happened to Bruce and Dick wasn't your fault. And even if it was? Eve-"

"Stop," Damian croaked, finding her shoulder and pushing her away half-heartedly. "I can't. Stop."

She smacked his hand away, hard enough to sting. Her fingers knotted in the short hair at the nape of his neck. She forced him to hunch forward, guiding him with that shaking hand against the back of his neck. Stephanie gathered him up like he was a child, despite his size. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close and keeping him there. He could have broken away-God, her arms were thin compared to his, willowy-but he didn't.

"Even if it was your fault, they'd _forgive you."_

He knew that. He knew, and it just dug deeper into that black, horrible pit inside him. Giving a shit about him had killed them. How could he feel like anything _but_ cursed?

The first sob ripped its way out of him as painfully as a bullet exiting his body. She held onto him tightly, and it felt like his sobs would rattle him apart if she let go. But she didn't, and she wouldn't, because that wasn't in her nature. Father hadn't thought her capable of being one of them, assuming that weak, _motherly_ streak in her would ruin her. Crime wasn't abstract statistics to her; it was people who had faces, people she cared about, people she would die for. She'd taken his father's fight to a level so deeply personal, it hurt to watch. It'd kill her, someday. He knew that it would.

Damian cried like someone who didn't know how to do it. He couldn't breathe properly, couldn't control himself, couldn't stop the hysterics once they'd broken out of him. His eyes burned and his nose ran and it was all so shamefully _weak._ He had his face buried in her neck, strands of her sweat-damp hair stuck to his mouth.

It was a turnabout; he'd comforted her and listened to her horrors, and now she'd done the same for him. The difference was, she was bright and gregarious and prone to sharing. He had told no one, had kept it all stuffed into a black mental box he'd labeled _do not open._ Because he was of the House of al Ghul, of the bloodline of Bruce Wayne, and nothing was allowed to break him.

He didn't feel _good_ after the initial spill slowed. He didn't feel _better_. He felt fucked-out and raw, but he did feel lighter, somehow.

"It's okay," she murmured, rubbing his back. "I'm not going anywhere. You've got me."

And he did. For that moment, he did.


	6. Chapter 6

"C'mon, D," she said, flexing her hands in an aggressive _come-hither_. "Hit me again."

Training was as much a part of their lives as roaming the streets was. In order to keep themselves sharp and agile in situations where their lives were on the line, they had to keep their bodies in tip-top condition. There were days that they waved off, days that they spent in bed or making whatever appearances Damian was required to attend, but for the most part they devoted at least two hours a day to physical maintenance. They staggered it-one day exercising, one day weight training, one day sparring, then rinse and repeat.

They had very different mindsets when it came to training. Damian saw it as just a part of life, integrated into his routines since the time he could walk, but she saw it as a constant challenge. She was always goading him into taking their spars more seriously, either by teasing him until he got annoyed with her or surprising him with a hit when he didn't expect it from her. She wasn't his equal-couldn't be, not with his size and training-but she was still _good._

And she was eternally focused on getting better.

"You do realize that the goal of sparring is to _avoid_ being hit, not invite it, don't you?" Damian asked, wrapping athletic tape around his palms.

"Details, details," she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "Come at me. Let's do this thing."

"If it pleases the ladies and gentlemen of the court," he twirled a hand at Alfred, their only witness. He was stretched out on their heap of clothes, actively rolling around and shedding on everything he could. "I'd like it to state on the record that Stephanie Brown asked for the ass-kicking I will shortly be administering. She-"

He was embarrassed to admit that she caught him off guard and got a solid suckerpunch in. It wasn't the first time that'd happened, either.

"Stop yammering and start fighting," she told him, cheeks flushed and grin wide.

He held his stomach, smirking despite himself.

"You fight dirty, wench."

"I was taught by the best," Steph reminded him.

"And I was taught by _all_ of the bests. I was taught every way possible to kill a man, and thought up twelve new ways all on my own when I was drunk one night." He grinned back savagely. "I was attempting to figure out a way to kill someone with just a look. That one is still a work in progress, but I feel I'm close to getting it."

"All I'm hearing is blah-blah-blah-hurr-de-durr-I'm-better-than-anyone-'cause-I'm-Daaaaaaaamiiiiiiiian Waaaaaayne. Where's my action? I asked for action."

"As the lady demands," he said, and _moved._

He was faster than anyone his size had any right to be. He'd been bred to be the strongest and swiftest, genetically perfect and ran through a wet tumbler until all his edges had been worn smooth. It took all she had in her to keep up with him, but the fact that she could even begin to go toe to toe with him was impressive. Drake hadn't been anywhere near his level when he'd been just a child; she had more than proven herself to be a capable fighter by comparison.

Steph was kept mostly on the defensive, blocking his strikes and kicks admirably, but when she saw an opening she took it-and, he was forever pleased to note, she didn't hold back. She didn't shy away from a knee to the genitals or a punch to the throat. Maybe he hadn't been the best influence on her as far as 'clean' fighting went, but the circles they ran in had no rules. What mattered was effectiveness, and precision, and creativity.

She tired out before he did, of course, so she was leaving holes in her defense before long. Those were dangerous-deadly-so he landed a hard jab to her cheek. If he didn't show her where she left openings, she wouldn't learn to cover them. And if she didn't learn to cover them-well, he refused to think about that. She fell, but she was on her feet and hissing again almost seamlessly.

And that was what made her different from the rest of them, bizarre: she had no inborn talent, no excess of skill, but she would not give up. You could hit her again and again and if she was physically able to do so, she'd get up and tell you to hit her harder next time. It was a rare trait, but one that he liked. There wasn't anything weak about her.

She kicked high-he blocked-but she hooked her leg around him and used her momentum and weight to drag him to the ground.

Steph pinned him, a thumb dug into one of the pressure points he'd taught her to recognize. It made his left hand-his dominant one, if only by a little, as well as the one he was blocking her with-tingle with numbness.

"Not bad?" She asked, breathing hard. Strands of honey-blond hair had escaped her ponytail and clung to her face and neck with sweat.

"Not bad," he agreed, and didn't make any move to push her off of him. He pressed his taped palms against the outsides of her thighs, starting at the hem of her shorts and trailing to the dimpled bend of her knee.

"If I'd known we were gonna play it like that," she said, shifting her weight in a way that made him groan. "I would've taken off my sports bra and won this fight an hour ago."

"Will you shut up and kiss me already? We're through with sparring for now, and I'm-_mmph-"_

Unlike him, Stephanie didn't have to be asked twice.

There had been a time not so long ago that he would have turned his nose up at this arrangement. The idea of having such a large distraction in his life-one that not only pulled him away from his daily regiments, but from his mission as well at times-had been abhorrent. Nothing could distract him, because he was a man and the Bat and therefore his own island.

But she focused him, reminded him _why_ he did the things that he'd been called to do. She made him happy, so it felt less like a punishment.

And he was with her because he liked being with her. It could be that simple, though he rarely let anything be that simple.

He cupped her cheek and she winced, pulling away.

"Ow. That's going to bruise up." Steph gingerly touched her cheek, exploring it with her fingertips. "And we've got that gala coming up, too. How much do you want to bet that the paparazzi will jump all over this?"

He frowned. "I don't see what you're getting at."

"I look like a battered girlfriend," Steph said, getting up and inspecting her bruises new and old. "Damian Wayne: Claims His Girlfriend Was Just Clumsy."

"That isn't funny," Damian said sharply. He didn't like the thought that someone would assume that he'd hurt her-he didn't like to hurt her at all, even in necessary training exercises. "And furthermore, I would not call you my girlfriend."

He knew that was the wrong thing to say the very moment it left his mouth.

_"Excuse me?"_

"I would not call you my girlfriend," he repeated, because there was no turning back now. "Especially not to any of those filthy rag-writers."

_"Oh,"_ she said, and he could tell that this was going to escalate into an entirely different kind of fight. "I see. I get it. I'm not worthy of being Damian Wayne's girlfriend publicly. We can Dark Knight it up together and screw around, but boy, an older girlfriend who doesn't know a soup spoon from a beverage spoon is just not fit for the public eye. Also, what the fuck is a beverage spoon, anyway? What is wrong with you people-you don't need a spoon for beverages!"

"It's more commonly called a teaspoon, and you use it solely to stir additives into a beverage. Hence its proper name."

"Okay. That does make sense. _But_, you missed my point."

Damian sighed, putting both hands on her shoulders. They were tactile people, so touch was communication. A touch like that meant _listen up._

"And you clearly missed mine," he said. "I would not call you my girlfriend because I find that term demeaning, not because I'm ashamed of you in some abstract way. You're not a girl. You're a woman. It also implies that the relationship is short-term, and I," he lost steam there, pausing for a beat. "I haven't found an appropriate label for us, yet."

He hoped that was answer enough for her, because it was more than he gave, usually. It was difficult for him to paint targets on where his feelings lay, outlining the shapes and depth of them. Everything in him resisted letting his desires see full light. They were too easy to prey upon when they were left where others could see them, and he was fiercely protective of anything that was uniquely _his._ Too often, he was the sum of his mother and father's parts.

But his feelings for her, his love, was all his. He held onto them and onto her jealously. That was why _girlfriend_ didn't cut it; it was too shallow and banal. Anyone could have a girlfriend, but only he had _her._ It nettled him in the same way the word _sidekick_ did. The implied imbalance frustrated him, because he didn't see her like that. She was a constant in his life, a now-permanent fixture. He relied on her.

"Duh, D," Steph said. She slid her arms around his waist, bruised cheek pressed to his chest. The hug was brief, but strong. "We're partners."

Her simplicity was brilliant.

"Wamf um muf m' moofies," Stephanie asked through a mouthful of crumbs.

Damian paused in the doorway of the kitchen, shaking his head. Whenever he woke up in the middle of the night and found the bed empty, there was an 80% chance that he'd find her in the kitchen. Her sleep patterns were irregular, and the cat always followed her out to keep her company no matter what the hour. Sometimes, Damian just went back to sleep, knowing that she'd crawl back into bed with him sooner or later. Other times, he followed her to the kitchen for an impromptu midnight snack.

"I'm going to assume that was something intelligible. I'm also going to pretend that you said it like a proper human being, with your mouth closed."

Steph scowled, swallowing and taking a sip of milk.

"I _said_, do you want some milk and cookies? And I'm preemptively telling you that if you say that this is why I'm fat, I'm stabbing you in your sleep."

"You say that like attempts on my life while I slept weren't one of the few traditions of my childhood. I welcome you to try," he said, taking the seat across from her. "And, you-you're not fat, you daft woman."

Even his compliments were paired with put-downs. Stephanie knew what he meant when he said things like that, thankfully. Even though he was eloquent, words failed him when it came to emotional matters. The whole 'girlfriend' mess earlier was a prime example of the highly specific version of Wayne foot-in-mouth-itis.

"Gosh, D, you're making me blush," she grinned, giving him a cookie-sweet kiss. "Next thing I know, you'll be telling me I'm acceptable in bed."

"You meet and sometimes exceed expectation."

"See, you're just brimming with sap. I don't know what to do with myself when you compliment me like this. It gets my heart going all a-flutter."

_"Tt."_

"So, are you going to eat some cookies with me, or are you going to be all holier than thou about my dirty plebeian snack foods?"

"I'll try one," he said loftily. "But don't expect me to like it."

He fished one out of the neat rows in the package and took a bite.

Stephanie stared at him like he'd grown a second head.

"What are you doing?"

He had the good manners to chew and swallow before answering. "Eating, what does it look like?"

"That's not how you eat an Oreo, heathen."

"Now _I'm_ the heathen, Ms. What the Fuck is a Teaspoon Brown?"

"Yup, you're a heathen and a jerk, but I have a lot of karma to burn through, so I'm stuck with you." Steph opened the package wider, dragging it between them. "Get a glass of milk and allow me to share with you how Oreos are supposed to be eaten."

He did as bidden, and only half because he was always interested in food. He was still a growing boy, so his caloric intake-by Steph's estimation-was almost obscene.

"Guide me in the right way to eat your damned cookies," he said, after he'd poured his own glass. "I'm listening."

"So. You take your Oreo-" she held one up very solemnly. "-and twist it open, like so. Then you lick the filling out of it, because it's the best part and here in America we're all about instant gratification. After you've finished the creme, you dunk the cookie halves in milk and eat them."

"That is needlessly complicated," Damian said, chin in hand.

"Deal with it. That's the way you eat Oreos, and any other way is wrong. _Wrong."_

He plucked a cookie out, twisting it like she had. It tasted...well. It wasn't bad.

She was watching him intently, waiting for his response. And since she was clearly very emotionally invested in the cookies, he couldn't disappoint.

"Not bad," he said, and reached for another.

"It's crazy," she said, twisting another cookie open and licking the creme. "I craved Oreos _constantly_ when I was pregnant. I couldn't stand 'em for over a year after I had my baby. I'd never thought I'd get tired of Oreos, but I totally did."

"I have heard of worse cravings. That's at least somewhat palatable." He mimicked her movements, twisting and licking and dunking, even though it made him feel slightly ridiculous. In his opinion, the cookies weren't nearly as good as the ones that Pennyworth had made, but they were fair for store-bought.

"I've heard that some women crave stuff like clay and charcoal, so yeah. Lucky, lucky me."

"Though, the method of eating these is unnecessarily time-consuming."

"I had a lot of time on my hands when I was knocked up. And I mean, _a lot._ I couldn't go to school, my boyfriend was a masked vigilante who wouldn't give me his real name, and my mom took as many shifts as possible to bring in some extra money. I watched a lot of movies and ate a lot of Oreos."

"That's when you started watching Disney movies obsessively, wasn't it?"

"Nah, I grew up on Disney. But you're right-I watched them until I didn't want to eat another cookie or see another talking lion as long as I lived."

"And yet," Damian gestured between them and the package of cookies. "Here you are."

She shrugged, smiling faintly. "Time heals all, I guess."

He gave a noncommittal _"Mm,"_ dunking another cookie.

"Okay, smart guy," Steph said, scooting her chair closer to his and commandeering the package. She hooked her bare leg with his underneath the table. She was always doing things like that-forever reminding him that she was there and she was warm and she liked touching him. "Here's Oreo eating: challenge round. You take two cookies and open 'em, then smoosh the two sides with creme together. It's called doublestuff. If you want to really kick it up a notch, you get the already-doublestuffed Oreos and _then_ put 'em together-quadstuffed. _Heaven."_

"You're impossibly strange," he said, shaking his head.

"You wouldn't want me any other way," she said, beaming.

"No," Damian said quietly, meaningfully. "I wouldn't."

She smiled the kind of smile that crinkled up the corners of her eyes and made them dance. It always left him a little bit dazzled, warming the tips of his fingers and the pit of his stomach.

"You're a charming little bitch, Damian Wayne."

"And you are a magnificent harpy, Stephanie Brown."

"To us," Stephanie said, raising her glass of milk in a toast.

"To us," Damian agreed, clinking his glass with hers. "Partners."

_"Dispatch, we've got a 11-65-"_

"Signal light out," Steph said, not looking up from the tinkering she was doing with one of her batarangs. "No."

"I wasn't going to suggest that we go," Damian said defensively, arms crossed over his chest.

Maybe that was a lie. But it was only a small lie. He was incredibly bored and the night was still young. He was rattling with energy and had nowhere to go with it. Patience and waiting had always been a part of the game, but he'd never gotten a taste for it. He preferred knowing what his targets were and intercepting them with a clear plan in mind. That was not the way of the Bat, though. The way of the Bat was reactionary, not predatory. They stopped crime, rarely heading it off unless it was a threat that needed pruning back.

"Take a chill pill, Bats," she said, making fine adjustments to her equipment before putting it back into her thigh holster. "We shouldn't _really_ get involved in anything big. The gala's tonight, and eyebrows will be raised if we're hobbling."

_"Tt."_ His response was sour and childish, but he didn't care. He needed to do _something._ It'd been a slow week, and those bothered him. When the crime wasn't apparent, he worried that only meant something big was brewing on the horizon.

_"-390D, over-"_

Damian reached for the ignition, but the dirty look Stephanie shot him stilled his hand.

"Do you even know what a 390-D is?" She asked in that icy, clipped way that he knew meant he wouldn't be winning the following argument, no matter what he said.

"Burglary...?"

Police procedures had been Grayson's field of expertise, for obvious reasons. There were some things he had not bothered to learn.

"Nice try. It's a passed-out drunk. So, do you really want to go stand over that evil drunk and yell at him in your scary batvoice until he wakes up? If you do, be my guest. But I'm staying in the car."

Damian didn't deign to respond to that with words. He just made another cranky noise low in his throat and leaned back in his seat.

For a few minutes, there was silence-as silent as the Batmobile ever got, at least. There was always an ambient hum, the car waiting to go from zero to day-saving as quickly as needed.

"You're just bound and determined to be a bitch tonight, aren't you?" Steph asked, sounding weary.

"I am not a bitch," Damian replied imperiously. "And I will never understand your fascination with calling me one."

"I only call 'em as I see it. If you were a skunk, I'd call you a skunk. But you're a bitch, so I call you a bitch."

_"Tt."_

She slid forward with a creak of leathery material, turning the volume of the scanner down slightly.

"Lean your seat back."

He turned and really _looked_ at her, bewildered.

"What?"

"Lean your seat back. You want to do something, so we'll do something."

He didn't even get his seat reclined all the way before she started working at his belt with nimble fingers; it was at that moment that he realized that by 'something', she meant _'something.'_

"Friggin' utility belts. Always a pain in the-bingo. Now we're in business."

Damian didn't get the chance to gather himself well enough to ask her what it was she was planning on doing. She freed him from his pants, snorting a little at how he was already half-hard.

He was barely twenty and in peak physical shape. Of _course_ it didn't take much more than a wink and a promise to get him to rise to attention.

"This is probably a bad idea," he said, though he didn't sound anywhere near convinced of that himself.

She licked a broad wet stripe from base to head; it made the hair on his stomach stand up with a rush of electric pleasure. He had to sit up from the feeling, arching.

He exhaled hard, pressing a balled-up fist against his mouth to keep from making too much noise. The Batmobile was soundproof, of course, but she didn't need to know exactly how easy it was to pull him undone.

Stephanie knew already, though. She knew, and she was altogether shameless about the fact. She swallowed him down and it was so good, he momentarily forgot how annoyed he'd been.

Damian's throat worked as he struggled to swallow and his eyelids fluttered. He carded his fingers through her hair, thoroughly enjoying her skills. She brought enthusiasm to everything she did, and he'd learned to _truly_ appreciate it.

_"-10-33 on SW Clay and-"_

And just like that, she dragged her head back up and let him go with a slightly obscene wet pop. The relative cool of the car was jolting; he readjusted uncomfortably.

"What-what are you-?"

"10-33," Steph said quickly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Metahuman activity. We've gotta go."

He should have picked that up himself-knew that he should have. But he'd been fairly _preoccupied_.

"But," Damian said plaintively, gesturing almost helplessly at himself. "...but..."

"Oh. Uh. Batboner, right." Steph regarded him very seriously-he could tell that she was trying hard not to laugh. "Not so great for the running and the jumping and the crimefighting."

"No," he agreed. "Told you this was a terrible idea."

"No, it was a great idea. It's been a week since we got any meta activity, so you just have awful luck." She paused, seemingly judging the situation in her head. "How good is the autopilot? Bet I can finish the job before we get there."

God, he loved her. He loved her an impossible amount, because she was going to finish giving him a blowjob and then fight crime with him. There was no way-_no_ way-that a better partner existed. He believed this deep down in the soul he no longer had.

"It will suffice," he said hoarsely, punching in the coordinates.

The vibration of her laugh as she sealed her perfect lips around him again made him grip the steering wheel and groan.

His father and Grayson hadn't realized what they were missing out on by not embracing the possibility of female partners, he thought dizzily.

"He calls himself Amygdala," Damian said, watching the rippling mass of flesh contort. He was huge, easily three times Damian's size, and had arms like tree trunks. He was yodeling angry vowels, too worked up to find real words. "He was an angry man whose amygdala was removed in an effort to cure his homicidal tendencies. This just made him angrier."

"Is that really his backstory?" Steph asked, watching the huge man-monster fling trash cans and rent-a-cops around.

"That absolutely is his history, yes."

"Man," she said, hands on her hips. "Talk about scraping the bottom of the origin barrel."

"They can't all be Ivys and Jokers, Batwoman. Some freaks aren't complicated or finessed. They simply are."

Steph sucked in a deep breath and adjusted her gloves. "Well, at least we know we'll be able to wrap this one up quickly. Big things fall hard, and he has the IQ of a raging hamster."

"A hamster that could easily break you over his knee," he reminded her. "I'll play rabbit. You ready a tripline and some knockout gas."

She snapped a smart salute. "Roger that, Bats. Operation Fall Down and Go Boom is go."

She just had to have a name or cutesy phrase for everything. He'd long since accepted that about her and didn't nitpick it as much as he would've liked to.

Damian-privately-enjoyed being the rabbit. He liked riling an enemy up, darting and twisting out of holds as smoothly as a dance. If he couldn't prove his worth with the clean lines and strikes of a kill, he could at least show that he was a step ahead of his foe-literally. Adrenaline coursed and sang, lighting up his veins; there was nothing quite as life-affirming as successfully playing chicken with something that could turn you into yet another bloody smear on Gotham's streets.

Amygdala was a simpleton. The surgery that had turned him into this emotion-driven joke had robbed him of higher brain function. Damian turned on the suit's emergency lights-points of pale blue glow that shone from all the seams and joints of his uniform. It'd been included as a safety measure, a light source in case he was in a situation that required visibility and the use of both hands.

It instantly made him the most interesting thing that Amygdala had seen all day. He clapped his massive hands, entranced by the darting ghostlight.

And he followed him like a child chasing a firefly, like a good little monster.

He heard the muffled noise of a tripline being shot and jumped up, dragging the meta's attention with him. He was too interested in the glowing Bat hanging now hanging from a fire escape to see the line he was about to stumble over.

Amygdala hit the trap-and the line snapped with a sharp, high twang.

"Son of a bitch," Steph said darkly, taking a step back. She'd been ready to hit him with ordinance, but now she was suddenly a brand new target.

The lumbering oaf zeroed in on her voice and staggered forward again. He reached for her, howling, and Damian quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her up onto the fire escape with him. It wasn't enough protection, but it was a momentary stumbling block for Amygdala-the sad, sorry sack struggled with the idea of _up_ for a few moments, fingers miming his want for her. He was like a grievously oversized child demanding a toy that had been put out of reach.

He was stronger than his file stats had outlined, but no matter. As Stephanie had said, big things fell hard. He only had to think of something, turn it around cleverly without resorting to a knife between his ribs.

And that's when the _second_ man-monster crashed in, bellowing.

Some nights just didn't go his way, no matter what he did. This was one of those nights, it seemed like. The meta saw them, looked straight at them, and he braced himself to be shaken down like an apple from a tree.

But then, the second hulking man turned and started pummeling Amygdala. The sounds of his fists hitting home were wince-worthy, the kind of fleshy smacks that heralded things rupturing and breaking. He was merciless, literally beating Amygdala down.

"Holy M. Night, Batman, this is a twist," Steph said, balancing precariously on the railing. "Do we just wait it out and rush the victor?"

"I don't see any reason why not," he murmured, not looking away from the titans fighting below.

Something about this was triggering. _Familiar._ He combed his memories, plucking out details-he had to be sure, because there was a very real chance that he'd be pitched through a wall if he misjudged the situation due to the interference of rosy-hued memories.

Amygdala warbled a thin moan before he fell and didn't get up again. The smaller meta punched the air with one mailbox-sized fist, shouting _"HA!"_

"I've got him," Steph said, one of her electric batarangs primed and ready to go.

_"No!"_ Batman barked, grabbing her arm. "Stand down!"

Batwoman froze, hair whipping as she turned to stare at him. It was rare that he gave commands to her like that, but he'd seen something. The big brute had something on his hands, a glint of old bronze that had caught the moonlight and burned.

He dropped from the fire escape, walking calmly up to the meta.

"I was wondering when I'd run into you," Damian said, opening his palms to prove he was unarmed and nonaggressive. He used his own voice, curious. Would he remember, or had his voice changed too much post-puberty?

The meta dragged his head up, bulbous eyes wide under the brim of his hat.

"Da...Robin?" He demanded, his voice deep enough to reverberate through his bones. "Is that really you?"

He gave him one of his brief, sincere smiles.

"Hello, Abuse. It's been some time."

"Robin!" Colin bellowed, picking him up with one massive arm and dragging him into an unwilling hug. He swung him around like a ragdoll, laughing, but stopped that as he began shrinking. This was good, because Damian had long since outgrown the size and age where being spun around like that was appropriate.

The corded muscles and worming veins twisted and shrunk, turning into skinny, freckled arms. He didn't look particularly well. He was still small for his age, thin. His face was sharp and narrow-he looked malnourished, but he knew that was a side-effect of the Venom.

But his eyes glittered brightly.

"You're Batman."

"So it would seem, yes."

"That's amazing," he gushed, still holding tightly to his forearms. He'd gone from hulking to breakably small-smaller than Stephanie, even. It sat awkwardly with him. Last he'd seen him, they'd been roughly the same size. Now, though, he was a man and Colin was a scrawny teenager who turned into a monster. No middle ground existed.

"Hi?" Steph cut in. She'd been watching this all unfold, blessedly silent for once in her life. "Sorry! Sorry. Not to break up this touching broment, but can I get an introduction?"

"Abuse, Batwoman. Batwoman, Abuse. I would use real names, but we are in the field and ought to maintain some level of professional conduct."

"Sorry about the hug," Colin whispered. "I've just. Y'know, missed you and stuff."

"Apology accepted. Just don't do it again."

"Is he...your friend?" Steph asked, and he winced at the disbelief in her voice.

Maybe he had a little bit of trouble connecting with people. That wasn't an uncommon thing. His kneejerk reflex of stabbing anyone who rubbed him the wrong way was a little less common, but he'd _mostly_ outgrown that.

"Yes," Colin answered for him. That one word brought with it a rush of warmth.

That wasn't something he heard often.

"Is she your girlfriend?" He whispered out of the side of his mouth.

But that was something that was just _plaguing_ him lately.

"She is my partner."

"I'm his mature and foxy ladyfriend," Steph said, holding out her hand to be shaken. He did so shyly, freckled face pinkening. "He's got some terminology hangups, but for all intents and purposes I am his girlfriend."

"I like her," Colin told Damian in an undertone.

"She's insufferable," Damian muttered back. "She says she's mature, but that's a boldfaced lie."

"But she seems really nice. She's pretty, too."

"Only a clever ruse."

"I can hear both of you. I'm standing right here, _boys,"_ she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"See?" Damian said with a put-upon sigh. _"Insufferable."_

Damian didn't make a _deal_ out of it when he chose to do kind things. There were many people who didn't believe he had a kind bone in his body-that Mother had bred those out of him-but he did have a generous streak. Only those who knew him well were familiar with it, and those special few knew better than to discuss it.

If he did something nice, it was because he wanted to do it. Thanks were not necessary, and if given they were just received with a curt nod.

His generosity was aggressive. He didn't invite Colin to come back to the manor with them; he simply informed him that he _would_ be coming. The skinny teenager hadn't needed to be pushed, though. He'd piled into the back of the Batmobile and vibrated with excitement. He'd spent most of his life acting as a vigilante, but he'd never seen himself as a hero. Heroes were something that the redhead worshipped, so he'd never realized that he was one of them.

To ride in the Batmobile with Batman and Batwoman was a bat-filled dream come true for him. He told them as much, and Stephanie had just beamed at him.

After a tour of the cave that started with Alfred and ended with Chuck, Steph begged off to shower and get ready for the gala. This left Damian and Colin alone to talk. Damian steered his old friend to the kitchen and told him to knock himself out; he sprawled in a chair and watched him happily decimate their leftovers.

"This is really good," Colin said, jabbing a fork at a square of casserole.

"Keep your opinions to yourself. The last thing I want is for Stephanie to get the wrong idea about her cooking," Damian sighed. Alfred purr-trilled a warning before leaping into his lap and stretching. The cat did not ask for attention like a polite animal-he demanded it, and harassed any available human until his needs were met. He headbutted Damian's chin, paws on his chest. He stroked his back, taking a calm moment to lay his thoughts out.

He was glad to see Colin again. _Happy._ Looking at him across the table made him want to smile, but it hurt a little at the same time. He kicked himself for not searching for him harder-for not following up on the cases that had made him wonder if he was still around, still alive.

Shortly after he'd met Colin, Dick had pulled him aside in private to talk. He'd told him that Venom was toxic, destructive. His face screaming sympathy, he'd told him that it was very unlikely that Colin would live past thirteen or fourteen. In the near-impossible event that he did last longer than that, puberty would push his metahuman system into twisted knots. He'd painted a grim picture, cautioning him, because he'd known that Damian didn't make friends easily. He hadn't wanted him to be crushed when he lost Colin, so he'd propped him up for the inevitable.

When Colin had drifted out of contact after Father's death, he'd assumed that the Venom had claimed his life. The life of an orphan held less weight than the life of a normal child, so his passing hadn't left a mark on the orphanage. His bed had been filled by a new kid, and Damian had carefully pinched the artery of his feelings off. He was practical, not a bleeding heart.

But, by some small miracle, Colin was here and alive and Damian would not lose track of him again. That much he swore to himself.

"Where have you been?" Damian asked as the cat kneaded his legs with sharp claws and pleased purrs.

Colin paused mid-bite, shrugging. "I've been around, I guess. I'm mostly Abuse, anymore. The city needs Abuse a heckuva lot more than it needs Colin Wilkes."

"Untrue," he murmured. "Regardless, it's odd that we didn't cross paths before tonight."

He scraped the bottom of his plate before serving himself another piece of casserole. Damian had to wonder how long it'd been since he'd had a hot meal. Too long, probably. He'd have to make it excessively clear that he would always have a hot meal and a warm place to sleep from now on.

"I stay in the bad parts of town-more kids like me there, you know?"

"Yes, unfortunately. I do know."

"There's millions of people in Gotham," he added after another large bite. "So, it's not so weird when you think about it. But boy, if I'd known it was _you_ in Batman's suit, I would've come to say hi ages ago. You sound just like the old one did, so I couldn't tell the difference. And, well. I kept my head down 'cause a part of me was afraid that if he knew I was using the powers I got from Scarecrow to get even with thugs, he'd tell me to stop."

It hit him-only briefly, because he chased the thought away-that yes, his father would have attempted to stop Abuse. He hadn't believed in an eye for an eye, wouldn't have agreed with the Biblical passages that Colin used to justify his actions.

But Father had justifications of his own, so Damian would not stop him. He and Colin were too alike for him to find fault in what he did.

The silence must have itched at the skinny teen, because he abruptly changed the subject with a smile.

"How long have you and Stephanie been together?"

"Two years," he said, scratching behind Alfred's ear. The shameless hedonist was drooling a little. "Maybe a bit longer. I'm not sure when we officially became 'something'."

"She's really pretty," Colin told him, like that was a compliment to him and his woman-wooing prowess. "And nice, too."

It occurred to him that he'd never spoken to anyone about his relationship with her. Milagro attempted to batter emotions out of him every so often, but he was notoriously closed-mouth about...well, everything. It never felt safe, never felt like something that he could air vocally. He talked about Stephanie to Alfred and to Chuck, which in retrospect was hugely unhealthy.

Damian took a deep breath.

"She is the most important thing in my life."

He said it aloud, and nothing exploded. Nothing changed. The world kept spinning.

It was the most bizarre sense of relief he'd ever experienced.

Colin was smiling, but not at him. He was smiling over Damian's shoulder, his constellation of freckles creased and crinkled.

"Is that _so?"_ Steph asked, sounding pleased.

He turned so quickly, he and the cat almost spilled out of the chair. She'd gotten dressed much more quickly than he'd anticipated, so he had to wonder exactly how much she'd heard. She'd gathered her hair back into a sleek chignon, a few choice ringlets spilling down the side of her neck, and she looked radiant in the champagne cocktail dress he'd suggested.

Damian's face and neck burned, and he shot a crabby, "See what I meant about her being insufferable?" at Colin, who only laughed.

Steph leaned over him, kissing the top of his head.

"Get your monkeysuit on, Prince Charming. We've got a ball to attend. I'll keep your seat warm and your friend entertained while you make yourself pretty."

"Take your time!" Colin said, waving enthusiastically.

Wayne Foundation charity galas were twice-yearly events. There was one in winter, when investors were heavy with the spirit of giving to those less fortunate than themselves, and one in early summer, when the promise of warm weather and fruity drinks pried open the fingers of even the most reticent millionaire. This one was the summer version of the charity gala, only differentiated by the heat and the wider color palette of the dresses. The December gala was red and green and white and gold, but the July one was a veritable rainbow of beautiful women.

If he'd been the type to enjoy large groups and open bars, Damian might have looked forward to the galas. But he wasn't a social creature, and he couldn't escape the fact that his presence was mandatory-and that it meant forced interaction with people who hated him. The public loved him, thinking him a cultured young inheritance baby, but there were a choice few who knew him for who and what he was.

Timothy Drake-Waye had to be seen at the events, and Commissioner Barbara Gordon had been a staple for years before his birth. there was no getting away from them, even though they all tried to avoid each other. They were like cats forced to intrude in each others' territory, tense and ready to bat and hiss at a moment's notice.

Stephanie could have taken his approach, but she didn't. She was willing to smile, no matter what arguments lay in the past, and that was a commendable thing.

Damian didn't even try. It would have been a waste of his time as well as theirs. Drake would eternally treat him like a vicious child and Gordon would eternally look at him like she wanted to break his kneecaps with a nightstick.

He watched Stephanie talk to Gordon. There was a stiffness in her posture, an undercurrent of guilt, and he had to force himself to look away. He was too tempted to read their lips, and that conversation wasn't his to hear.

"Is she your girlfriend?" A twenty-something in a very expensive-but poorly fitted-suit asked, eyebrows arched meaningfully. He stank of new money. Probably the son of a dotcommer, all entitlement and no sense of propriety.

That was it. The last straw. The absolute _last_ straw.

The next person to ask him if she was his girlfriend was going to be stabbed. No questions asked. Just stabbed. Probably stabbed several times, since he had a lot of aggression to get out.

"If she isn't," the seedy bastard continued, "Lemme know. I'd like to get myself a piece of that action, if you know what I mean." He laughed, jostling him with his elbow in what he probably thought was a friendly fashion.

It was not.

Damian wanted to grab that elbow and break it in no fewer than three pieces.

Maybe he'd make that 'stab the next person who asks' vow _retroactive._

He turned a vicious smile on him that was all teeth. It promised that and a whole lot more.

He might have been a stupid son of a bitch, but he got the picture that he was avidly painting.

"She's spoken for," Damian informed him frostily. "And now if you'll excuse me, I need to cleanse my palate with a drink."

One drink turned into two, two into three, and he had the clarity of mind to stop there. There were too many people around that he wanted to say things to, but he knew that he absolutely should not engage them under any circumstances. Too much liquor would loosen his sharp tongue, and then it'd all go to hell.

Drake decided to come by and have a chat while he was nursing that third whiskey sour. He tried to keep his features neutral, but it didn't help his mood that Drake looked vaguely like he'd caught whiff of something foul every time he looked at him.

He knew what he thought of him. He didn't need to remind him over and over and over.

"I didn't want to come," Drake said, instead of hello. "But I was required. I just wanted to put that out there, in case you feel like I'm trying to make your life miserable."

"You accomplish that merely by existing," he drawled.

His brow creased. It was the only sign that he'd hit a nerve.

"Aren't you still underage?"

"Aren't you still a virgin?" Damian shot back, perfectly mimicking his own voice.

Definitely should have stopped at that second drink.

Drake's eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline.

"Are you _drunk?"_ He hissed in an undertone.

Damian rolled one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Slightly."

"Jesus, Damian. What do you think you're doing?"

"Do you think I want to be here?" He asked with an expansive gesture at the glitz around them. "I'm not my father. I cannot pretend to be friendly and gregarious. I terrified grown men when I was four years old. I can't fake this, and it reflects poorly upon the company. So, I am drinking. It seemed like a healthy enough way to cope."

Drake took the seat next to him. He looked worried and all too sincere.

Damn him.

"I could take care of the company's public face, Damian. I'm technically the successor and still a major shareholder. You don't have to do this. You have that other job, and you and I both know I'm not cut out for that one."

"Father could," he muttered sullenly at the ice cubes slowly melting in his glass. "Father could balance both."

"Yeah, well. You're not him," Drake said, but not unkindly. "There's some things he couldn't do that you're nailing."

"Like?"

Drake's eyes flicked past his shoulder, out into the crowd. Damian followed his line of sight, resting on a woman whose back was turned to him. She was all summer-tan skin and artfully arranged blond hair, the sweet dip of her back draped by the folds of her champagne-colored dress.

It took him a moment to realize that it was Stephanie. Out in the throng, flitting from group to group with a bright smile on her face, shaking hands and laughing, she was almost a stranger.

She hadn't been born into wealth or prestige. She had no training, no etiquette, but she won people over with her effervescent attitude and magnetism. Her charm was effortless. She reminded the older couples of a daughter or granddaughter, the younger ones of a sister or friend. Steph had an uncanny ability of making herself so invitingly open, strangers felt they'd known her forever and opened up in turn.

He was proud of her. It squeezed his heart almost painfully.

"Bruce could balance the day job and the night job," Drake continued. "You're right about that. But he couldn't carry a real relationship. He wasn't capable of striking that balance, but you're making it work. If you ask me, sacrificing public schmoozing is completely worth having someone like her."

"You missed out on something amazing," Damian said, before he could stop himself.

"I know. And as her friend, I'd rather she give all that wonderful to a _frog_ over a psychotic prick like you, but she made her decision and I have to respect that."

"You have no idea how amazing," he said, and smirked.

It was a smirk that spoke lewd volumes.

Drake went from looking uncomfortable to looking downright ill. He rubbed his temples.

"I really don't want to think about that."

"Last night, in the Batmobile, we-"

"I'm leaving," Tim said, features pinched. "And I'm also telling the bartender to cut you off. I'll email Lucius about pushing me toward the public arena and you back toward threatening the competition with professional kneecapping. Have a good night."

_Flawless victory,_ Damian cheered inwardly, toasting himself. He was unspeakably smug. _It's never tasted quite so sweet._

Her rounds finished-asses patted and hands shaken, names remembered and party dates set-Stephanie reappeared at his elbow. She was thrumming with pent-up aggression, and he could have kissed her for being just as annoyed as he was.

"I need to get out of here before I stab someone," Steph announced, and grabbed his wrist. "Let's dance."

He had so, so many reasons to love her.

"Do you even know how to waltz?" Damian asked, fearing for his toes.

"Details, details," she scoffed with a flick of her wrist. "Come at me. Let's do this thing."

She attacked everything in her life with the same force and determination she leant to sparring. Such was the nature of Stephanie Brown. He took her hand and led her out onto the dance floor.

There was a live band-of course; they had money enough for real people playing real instruments-and the music had turned low and moody as the night wound down.

Surprisingly, she did know how to dance. She followed his lead, but she didn't need to be nudged along. He led, but only just barely. That was how she was. He had the lead, but only because she allowed it.

"Someone's been hitting the open bar," she whispered, giving him one of her many looks. This one was mildly annoyed, but colored mostly by amusement.

"Drake started it," he whispered back. "You should blame him. His face is enough to drive anyone to the bottle."

"You're two drinks away from 'take me now, woman,' aren't you?" Steph asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"If we factor that dress you're wearing into the equation, possibly only one drink away. One shot, if it's a double."

She pulled at his ear until he leaned down far enough for her to kiss him. He wasn't fond of public displays of affection, but knowing that Drake and Gordon were undoubtedly watching made him put on a little bit of a show. He was aggressive, cupping the back of her head; her arms tightened around his neck as she relaxed and pressed her body into his. He braced an arm around her back and dipped her, her heels clearing the floor.

"You sure do know how to charm the pants off a girl, Mr. Wayne," she said, half breathless.

"I'm only interested in getting your dress off," he reminded her. He could feel Drake glaring lasers into his back, and it felt wonderful. "But I appreciate the compliment."

"When this is over," she began, and her voice held a promise that stole his full attention. "You and I-"

But that interesting thought was cut short by the front door getting blown off its hinges. A woman screamed, and Damian instantly regretted drinking. If he concentrated, he could force his head to clear-but everything needed his attention, and needed it immediately.

"Ladies and gentlejerks, lend me your ears! This is a stick-up! Don't tell me you ain't been in one before!"

A group of armed men in white suits and matching masks spread around the crowd, claiming the exits. At the head of the mob was a curvy woman with a red domino mask, wearing a white suit with narrow red pinstripes. There was a silk heart stitched into her left lapel. The heart had a fringe of three strands of rubies at the bottom-it made it look like she was bleeding down her breast.

Loveless. She was one of the most notorious gang bosses in Gotham, and she'd dressed for the party. Then again, she'd always had a flair for production and fashion. The little red and black checkered number and jester hat she used to wear had been almost iconic.

But Harleen Quinzel had grown out of that role, that jester's hat and ruffled collar. She was sleek and streamlined, pared down to a single impact.

She was exactly as advertised: heartless and Loveless. The Joker was gone, Catwoman had retired and moved away, and Poison Ivy had abandoned her for the Green. Instead of crying about it, she'd hardened. And a hard-hearted Harley with sugary endearments had either charmed or disposed of all of her competition.

She had a machine gun braced against her hip, her bob of short blond curls bouncing as she waved.

"Evenin', folks! I'm lookin' for a Bat-anyone seen her? She's about my height, an' she's got blond hair, an' she's got a cape an' pointy ears. She's awful cute, so if you've seen her you'll know who I'm talkin' about. Ringin' any bells? Aww, heck, I'll give you some time ta think about it. While you're doing that, how's about putting your shinies inta the bags my boys are passin' around?" Harley smiled, her red, red lips pulled wide. "If nobody pulls anything stupid, I'll letcha get back ta your dancin' an' everything."

Damian had already pressed the button on his watch that initiated the Batmobile's autopilot. It would arrive in fifty-two seconds, forcing traffic lights to turn on its approach. The GCPD knew better than to slow it down. Their costumes were inside it already, and it wouldn't take them longer than fifteen seconds to change.

He caught Drake's eye across the room. He nodded imperceptibly, unbuttoning his suit jacket to bare a flash of red.

Good. He'd come prepared in his own way. Drake disappeared, and Damian tugged at Steph's wrist until she followed him through the crowd.

"Any idea why she wants you, not me?" He hissed as they disappeared through a false door. No one had seen them blend through them and then away. Every building that the Wayne family owned had passages like that one, tunnels and entrances that didn't exist on any blueprints.

"Gender equality?" Steph tried, then shook her head. "I seriously have no idea."

"I don't like it."

The Batmobile appeared with a hushed purr, the door sliding open. He tossed her her suit and utility belt; she'd already unzipped her dress and pulled off her heels.

"That makes two of us. Do you know how long it took me to do my hair up like this?" Steph asked as she swiftly plucked hairpins out of her curls. "I'm going to kick her ass into next week. _Ugh."_

Damian pulled up his cowl, then gave her a brief kiss. "Red Robin and I will secure the room and the hostages. You take her down." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "Be safe."

"Will do," she promised, and donned her mask.

"Geeze!" Batwoman said loudly, standing atop the staircase and holding her hands wide. All eyes turned up on her, completely missing the red and black of Batman and Red Robin sliding into their midst. "I've heard of the party not starting 'til I walk in, but this is ridiculous!"

_"Honeyyyyyy!"_ Harley sang, a hand to her heart. "You came! I knew you would. Everybody knows if you wanna smoke out a bat, all you've gotta do is turn the screws on the Waynes."

"Pretty sure that the Waynes have gotten tired of that shit," she deadpanned, walking down the stairs. Her cape trailed after her like the train of an evening gown. "But what do I know? You wanted me, Loveless, so I'm here. Start talking before I start punching."

She snapped her fingers, and the men in white suits grabbed Steph. She let them. There were at least two dozen armed men still casing the crowd, and any overly aggressive moves could set them off. There would be no heroics until Damian confirmed that everyone was safe.

"Call me Auntie Harl. C'mon, you an' me, we gotta have a heart ta heart-less."

And with that, she was cuffed and dragged to the banquet hall. The heavy oak doors were closed and barred behind them.

The men holding her forced her down on her knees. The position made bile rise in the back of her throat, but she allowed it. For the people below, she dealt with the humiliation.

Then, they let her go and stepped back. Harley paced an even line in front of her, red stiletto heels clicking heel to toe. She plucked an apple out of the fruit basket on the banquet table, rolling it between her palms.

She took a bite, then spat it out. "Wax! Wax fruit. Wouldja look at that. It figures, y'know? There's nuttin' real about these high society cats. They replace their personalities with suits an' dresses an' jewels. Take 'em away, an' they're big crybabies. Big, _broke_ crybabies."

"What is this _about,_ Quinzel?" Steph growled, her voice low and dangerous.

She blinked, then smiled.

"That's the surprise! This is about you. I wanted ta get a chance ta have some girl talk. I've heard a lot about you, an' the more I've heard, the more I've thought that you an' me could be friends."

The way she said _friends_ held tears. Everything else bounced and rolled with gaiety, but _friends_ throbbed and ached. She pressed her lips together, took a breath of composure, and crouched so that they were eye-level.

"You're crazy," she said, hoping that it'd trigger her. She was easier to work and manipulate if she was angry.

"Boo, I'm a psychiatrist. Didja know that? I used ta be a _doctor._ Dr. Harleen Quinzel. But that was before Mistah J came inta my life an' shook it all up."

"The Joker."

"My puddin'," she agreed, but it held no fondness. She might as well have called him something foul. "He screwed me all up. I thought I loved him, y'know? An' love-love's the worst kinda crazy in the book."

Harley traced the points of her cowl's bat-ears thoughtfully.

"Just tell me what you want from me. We're not going to be friends. You're the crazy ex that every other crazy ex wishes she could be."

Her hand snapped across her face, the slap sudden enough to give her whiplash.

"I'm sorry!" She squealed, holding her face. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean ta hit ya. Cross my heart. You jus'-you gotta know what it's like. I don't wanna be 'just the crazy ex'. I'm bigger than that. Bigger than Mistah J. But people, they still compare me ta him. They never take me seriously. I can kill 'em all, but they'll never take me seriously. An' that's why I'm here. That's why I'm holdin' all those fat rich jerks hostage."

Harley's face was china doll white, her lips red as a slash. She sat next to her, knees drawn up, and smoothed a few damp strands of hair from Steph's face, careful not to press against her throbbing cheek. Her touch was light, gentle, just fingertips and the plucking edge of her poison-painted nails.

"Listen, sweetpea," she murmured. "You listen ta Auntie Harl. Sooner or later, he's gonna leave you. They do that, y'know? _Men._ Sure, you're good for a few laughs, but you're just his opening act. They'll remember him, not you. Everyone remembers Mistah J, but ol' Harley? Nope. _Nuttin'."_

"I hate to break it to you, but there's some major differences between Batman and your psycho exes."

Her eyebrows arched. "You so sure about that? What about all those birdy boys of his? Those Robins? I ain't seen 'em in _ages._ Did they fly south?"

She couldn't answer that. One Robin was dead, one Robin was worse than dead, one Robin had twisted the title around to mean something new, one Robin had become the Bat himself, and one Robin was sitting right next to Harley, fighting to keep calm.

But they never remembered that Robin, did they?

"He had a girl Robin, too," she said between clenched teeth. "The fourth one was a girl."

"Ha! That's news ta me. She didn't stick around, huh? Smart girl. Those Bats, they're nuttin' but trouble for girls. You should come with me, puddin'. Give up those silly bat ears. I could give you anything you wanted. Anything at all. An' you wouldn't hafta worry about bein' my second anything."

Harley put an arm around her, kissing her cheek. The smear of lipstick that she left behind burned and tingled. Her perfume was heady, cinnamon and carnations. She didn't pull away, holding onto her like she was a sister or friend or lover.

This wasn't about intimidation, she realized with a sinking sensation. It wasn't about humiliation. It wasn't even about patronization. Loveless was being genuine, being _kind_-she truly thought that she was helping her.

That took her breath as swiftly as a punch to the gut. It felt a lot like panic.

There was no way this psycho was right.

No way.

"Don't get down, puddin'," Harley said, stroking her hair. "I didn't wanna burst your bubble an' ruin your night, but I don't want you ta end up like me, neither. In this circuit, second billing doesn't just mean gettin' less time in the limelight. It means you're expendable-you can always be cut, an' the show'll go on. Wise up. You'll save yourself a whole lotta heartbreak. I could kidnap you, if you want. I can make it seem like you fought, an' then we can disappear forever. I jus'...I don't wanna go alone. An' you seem nice. It'd be good for us both, I promise."

"He's not like that," Steph said firmly, straining at her cuffs and leaning away from her touch.

"Take it from a girl who's made bat-watchin' her hobby since you were in gradeschool," she said, blue eyes bright and sharp as solitaire settings. "Bats're only out for numbah one, an' Gotham's numbah two. Where's that leave you?"

No. Damian wasn't like Bruce. She wasn't the girlfriend. She wasn't the sidekick. She was his partner, and she couldn't be replaced or forgotten. He'd said that, _meant_ that, _promised_ that.

But hadn't Bruce promised the same thing?

_"Get away from her."_

Batman melted out of the shadows, hands furled into fists at his sides. There was a half-dozen metallic clicks as the bodyguards took their safeties off and aimed at him.

"Aww, _you._ You just had ta show up an' ruin it all! Batwoman an' me, we were havin' a girl talk." Loveless shooed him with both hands, the corners of her red lips turned down into a frown. "Go back ta your belfry, ya big moose!"

The distraction was all that Steph needed. She'd jimmied the lock open three minutes before, but she'd needed Harley to look away. She busted free of the cuffs, fisted her hand in as much of her hair as she could grab, and started punching.

She was so _angry._

How dare she think that she knew him, knew _them._ How dare she say those things. How dare she plant that ugly seed of doubt deep, deep down where she couldn't uproot it.

The guards whirled on her, but Damian stole their attention back with a smokebomb and two canisters of riot teargas.

There were shouts and dull thuds, hacking coughs, and firearm reports as knocked-out guards pulled triggers reflexively, but she ignored them. She focused on Loveless, on holding her down and beating the smug _knowing_ out of her.

How dare she. How dare she. She was wrong. She had to be wrong.

She'd promised herself that it wouldn't happen again, that she wouldn't let Batman do that to her for a second time.

"Enough," Damian growled in her ear, grabbing her wrist. "That's enough."

And it was. It was more than enough, really, more hurt than Steph usually brought. Harley's face was swelling, pale skin mottling red and black and blue. The blood on her suit was real now, not just rubies dripping from a silk heart. Her lipstick was smeared in a broad stripe across her bruised cheek.

Steph fought to breathe. "Got them all?"

"All neutralized and zip-tied. We need to go."

Yes, they had to go. They had to go and redress in their nice clothes and pretend that they'd been there the whole time, helpless and wringing their hands. She had to calm herself down enough to fake being a damsel in distress, even if that went against everything in her.

But they'd been taught to be actors, the very best at what they did. Besides, the Commissioner herself and the head of the Justice League would confirm that they'd been among the hostages, if any suspicion was cast on them. And that, right there, was why she'd been so adamant about keeping healthy ties to them, despite all their differences. Mutual respect kept all of their asses covered.

Steph was about to nod and agree, to tie Harley up for the GCPD to deal with, but the beat-up moll pulled a gun and fired.

Damian saw Stephanie go rigid, saw the entire moment slow down and spool out bit by bit, millisecond by millisecond.

Loveless had hidden the gun in her suit coat. It was small, a lady's pistol, a laughable icon of the female power she'd built herself up to be. She cocked it, looked him straight in the eye, and squeezed the trigger.

Even though Batwoman had been the one to beat her, she wasn't aiming at her. No, she was clutching her hand possessively and looking at _him_.

Like she was protecting her.

Like he was the villain, not her.

He didn't need to push Steph out of the way or save her in a move of heroic self-sacrifice. He wasn't the hero in this scenario. He didn't know _what_ he was, what was happening, what balance had been overturned.

Loveless pulled the trigger, and his last thought was, _This could have gone better._


	7. Chapter 7

It felt like he was sleeping, but everything was too crisp to be a dream. He'd lived this dream before, maybe more than once: the dream of being five years old and living in Uzbekistan. He had never met his mother, but his handlers and trainers told him stories of her, keeping him informed of where Talia was at all times. She was like some kind of benevolent goddess, someone who loved him, though he had never seen her and sometimes disbelieved that she actually existed. He was expected to love her back on faith alone, and for the most part he did.

Damian's early years had mostly been spent in stasis. He was a weapon, but one that had to be grown. Talia had considered his early development to be non-essential, so he'd slept through most of his first three years of life. Childhood was clumsy, fraught with dangers, and was a learning experience for most children. Most children needed many years to assimilate speech and social cues, to be indoctrinated, but Damian did not. He was a genius, so he didn't require the endless repetition of a normal childhood.

His earliest memories, then, only stretched back to age five. He didn't know if that was because he'd only been free of the tubes he'd been matured in for brief stretches before then, or if it was because that was when his life's purpose had been introduced to him. It'd been his time of firsts, when he'd been fresh clay that a whole team of his mother's hired help sought to mold. He had many tutors and trainers and nannies, but they were all his mother's. He had only one servant of his own.

His name was Sunnat, and he was a seven year old Uzbek boy. His skin was darker than Damian's, but he had hair the color of an old copper coin. It was very red in sunlight. His nurse had told him that his mother had hair like that. Damian would find reasons to play outside with Sunnat, just so he could memorize what his maybe-real mother's hair looked like.

Sunnat's English was very good. He spoke with an accent, but so did Damian. All of his nannies and caretakers had been British. His mother had demanded upon English being the first of his many languages-it was the most useful language internationally, and he would be eventually living in America. She would have had him taught American English, but she did not care for American hired help. Spoiled and lazy, the other nurses said: all Americans were spoilt and shiftless.

Damian didn't understand that, because his father was American. His father was Bruce Wayne, and he was the male aspect of Damian's parthenon. Mother was Goddess and Father was God. He prayed to them sometimes, when Sunnat was praying to his God. His servant was one part help, one part babysitter, and one part friend. He was the only child that Damian had ever talked to, so he was important to him, despite his common birth.

But one day, Sunnat changed. He didn't smile. He didn't laugh. When he looked at Damian, his eyes were wide and shiny with fear. He barely said two words to him all day, playing with him mechanically. That night, Damian awoke to someone lying on top of him, holding a pillow over his face. He screamed and kicked, scared out of his mind. He was positive that it was some kind of monster in his room, the kind that his nannies said didn't live underneath his bed, but he recognized the voice sobbing "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," again and again.

He managed to push Sunnat away from him and off the bed, but by that time he was so scared and confused that he was crying, too.

"I huh-have to," Sunnat bawled from the floor. "If I don't kill you or you don't kill me, the assassins will kill m-my family. Please."

"They wouldn't," Damian said, shaking his head and crawling away until his back hit the wall. He hugged his knees and whimpered. "You're my servant. I'm supposed to take care of you."

Sunnat's sobs were so harsh and loud, they rang in his ears. He crawled to the opposite corner of the room and faced the wall. He eventually stopped crying, but Damian did not go back to sleep. He couldn't. He kept staring at the other boy's back and wondering what he had done to deserve it. Was he telling the truth? Or was he lying, because he was jealous of Damian's wealth? One of his nannies-one that hadn't lasted long-had said that. His mother and grandfather were wealthy and powerful. The weak resent the mighty.

Dawn cast a tangerine blush across the floor of Damian's room, but neither he nor Sunnat moved until the door opened. It was Sensei, one of the men Damian was meant to listen to. He looked at Damian, then at Sunnat, then sneered and closed the door again.

He returned, not five minutes later, with a woman's severed head. He had her long red hair fisted in his hand. He shook the head at Sunnat, who wailed like a dying thing, like an animal, like nothing Damian had ever heard in his life. He covered his ears with his hands, but he couldn't block he sound.

"Next time," Sensei said. "You will do as you are told, worm."

The rest of the day was a blur for Damian. He was exhausted, shell-shocked. He couldn't eat, couldn't focus on his lessons, couldn't think past the terror that had coiled and buried its teeth at the base of his skull. He needed to sleep, but he couldn't. He knew what would come tonight, when he slept. He knew that Sunnat would want to kill him now.

And he was afraid, because he didn't want to hurt him. He was his only friend.

As the day wound down, he found himself becoming more hysterical. When he refused to eat his dinner and started to cry, he was slapped until his cheeks felt hot and swollen. It didn't stop his tears, but it silenced them.

He laid on top of his bedcovers, curled into a defensive ball, and watched the dark room unblinkingly. Instead of the usual warm goat's milk and umm ali that they had as a nighttime treat, the nurse had left two long kitchen knives by their beds. Damian had the knife in his small fist, listening to the dark for any tells of movement.

It could have been just minutes before Sunnat got up, or it could have been hours. It felt like an eternity.

"Please," he whimpered, and a thread of moonlight spooled over the edge of the knife he held before him. "Papa is next. I have four sisters. Please."

He knew that he had no choice.

"I'm sorry," Damian whispered, for one of the first and only times in his life.

And then, using his keen ears to zero in on his servant's sobs, he started stabbing blindly.

It wasn't easy. He'd watched the assassins, and they made murder seem effortless. He had the knife, but not the strength to wield it properly. It'd been a full day since he'd eaten and two since he'd slept; he lashed out again and again, but the boy just continued to shriek. He cut, and he cut, but they were all too shallow. Sunnat screamed and bled and Damian struggled desperately to make it stop.

Sunnat tried to get away from him, driven by instinct and panic, but Damian reacted with his instinct: he struck a wide, solid hit that sliced his belly open. Everything soft and necessary inside him spilled out in knots and loops.

The smell was unbearable. He couldn't hear his own sobs over Sunnat's broken, hoarse howling.

After a few moments, the howl dropped into a wet gurgle, then was gone. He stopped moving. He died.

Damian wadded his tiny body up in the corner furthest from the sticky, salt-and-copper pool around Sunnat's corpse, trembling and weeping. He didn't let go of his knife; his knuckles felt frozen around the handle.

Sensei came into his room at dawn. He was slapped for crying, but then he told him he'd done admirably. He told him it'd get easier, and he was right. It had.

The first lesson that his mother taught him was an important one: emotional attachments were dangerous. Anyone could betray you. Anyone could be used against you. If you wanted to love something, you had to be prepared to destroy it with your own hands.

Damian had resisted his mother's tutelage, but he could not bury her teachings. He still carried the lessons, the truths of the House of al Ghoul etched into his bones. In every other relationship that he'd had, he'd asked himself if he loved them enough to either kill them or be killed by them. Trusting meant arming those he cared about; love meant baring his throat.

After Sunnat, he hadn't thought himself capable of giving anyone that power over him. But, against his own wishes, there had been a parade of people in his life who he'd allowed to hurt him-Mother, Pennyworth, Father, Grayson, Colin, Stephanie. Love, he'd realized by the time mother had abandoned him and Pennyworth had passed away and Father had died and Grayson had disappeared, was an emotion that was good, but always ended up making him want to die in no small way. Love only lasted until the day it could be weaponized against him.

But, at least he'd gotten out of half of his mother's law. Nobody could kill him, now. Not even if he wanted them to kill him.

And that's why, even though he'd been shot in the face at close range and had died, he came to again. It was always hard, always painful, always like clawing up through hundreds of leagues of dark water. The first gasp of air he dragged in seared his lungs. Most people only got to breathe their first breath once, at birth. Damian had had a hundred first breaths by now.

"Let him go. The GCPD will want us to turn over his body if we don't get him out of here now. Let him go, and I'll help you carry him."

Drake. Drake's voice, but it wasn't a tone he ever used with him. Red Robin was speaking quietly, soothingly, like he was trying to calm down a child. He didn't have to hear Stephanie's ragged, hysterical sobbing to know that he was talking to her. She thought that Tim's love for her had died years ago, but Damian knew better. It was one of the things that made him dislike Tim, however irrationally-he still loved Steph, and still had that gentle, kind voice reserved for her alone.

Her sobs were as desperate as the ones that'd wracked her after she'd woken up from nightmares. Damian struggled with consciousness, with lining his thoughts end to end in order to make sense of what was going on, because something was wrong. Stephanie didn't cry unnecessarily. It took him a few seconds to realize that it was him that she was sobbing over, that it was her face buried against his neck.

He'd died again. Fuck.

"Batwoman," Drake said, then dropped his voice to a tight little whisper and begged, "Steph. Come on. We have to hurry."

Damian coughed, wheezed, and opened his eyes.

"Shut up, Robin," he said, though it felt and sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of gravel.

They stared at him, the visible parts of their masked faces white as paper.

"Jesus Christ," Tim breathed. "What are you?"

A man without an excuse, for once.

Every other dead Robin had come back from the beyond, but he could tell that his trip was going to cause a fuss. Pointing out the hypocrisy wouldn't help him now.

Stephanie was speechless, staring at him with huge, glassy blue eyes. Her nose was red, her lashes clumped in wet darts. He couldn't read her complicated, stricken expression.

He'd tried so hard to keep this from her-and for years, he'd been successful. Once again, a bullet had killed the Batman. He'd have to answer her when she demanded how he'd come back and why he'd come back and why he'd never told her.

Damian didn't know what to tell her.

"Help me up. We-we have to go back to the party."

"You were just shot in the face," Tim said hollowly. "I will vouch for Damian Wayne having a headache. Go. Take care of the fatal gunshot wound that you apparently are just going to walk off. Jesus christ."

"You died," Steph croaked, and her voice broke his heart.

He had to tell her the truth. He had to hope she'd forgive him for what he'd done.

"Up we go," Tim said, grabbing his forearms and helping him get to his feet. His older brother was much smaller than he was, but he was still strong-especially when he was fueled by nerves and desperation. He was smart; he was stepping up to handle the fallout, because it was clear that Steph wasn't rebooting her composure anytime soon. "I'll handle this. Regroup, clean up, and then call me."

Oh, of course he'd want an explanation, too.

"Thank you," he said curtly, and took Stephanie's hand. Her arm was limp, and she followed him without a word.

The drive back to the cave was silent. All of Damian's apologies were stuck in his throat.

It felt like she was living out a nightmare. As someone who had her share of nightmares, the shifts were familiar to her. It all starts out rosy, lulling you into feeling good and safe. The evening had been dreamlike. She and Damian had been together in public like a real couple and it'd felt nice. But the bubble had burst, sharp angles of panic digging in until everything was horror spread with the thin film of what had been a dream.

It'd been so sudden, too. One second, dancing. The next second, the burn of Loveless' kiss. The next second, Batman falling backward. The next second, holding Damian as he bled out.

And the next second, Damian opening his eyes like a bullet hadn't bored through his head.

Stephanie was numb. Overwhelmed. Waiting to wake up.

But he kept driving, and she had to grapple with the idea that everything that'd happened was real. They went through the motions of patrol wind-down, trooping to the washroom and peeling off their suits.

When Damian took off his cowl, she swallowed a scream. His hair was matted to his head with coagulated blood, red rivulets worming down his neck and back.

"It looks worse than it is," Damian sad calmly, hands raised in treaty. "I'm fine."

"Fine?" She squeaked between her fingers. She pressed a hand over her mouth to keep her nausea pent up. "How can you-how?"

Damian twisted the sink's water as hot as it'd go. He mutely watched it run.

Steph grabbed one of their throwaway rags, soaking it under the steaming hot water. She wrung it out roughly, then started mopping him up. He sat on the edge of the counter, leaning over so that she could scrub his hair. She wiped down his neck, his face, his back, patiently rinsing out the rag again and again. The water ran red, then pink, then finally clean. She was careful with his head, because his hair was literally plastered to his skull with blood. There had to be a wound somewhere. Nobody could lose that much blood and be as calm as Damian was.

"I heal," he mumbled finally, barely audible. He was staring at the floor, not making eye contact. "When injured, I heal. I cannot die."

She didn't say anything to that. Didn't know what to say. She'd seen it firsthand, but it still felt surreal.

Damian fished a switchblade out of his discarded utility belt. He dragged the tip down the inside of his forearm, from wrist to elbow; Steph screamed before she could stifle herself, but Damian didn't so much as wince. He held his arm over the sink, blood gushing for a second. Then it slowed to a dribble, then stopped altogether, and he wiped his arm off.

The wounds sealed up, visibly knitting together as she watched. Steph followed the disappearing scar tissue with her fingernails.

"Whoa," she said. "This is new. This is new and I'm kind of more than slightly freaked out. Why did you hide this from me?"

Damian didn't meet her eyes. Silence yawned between them, but he didn't so much as fire off a snarly response. She shoved him, hard, but he didn't react. That set off more warning bells and red flags in her head than she knew how to deal with.

"You had better start talking," she said, voice low. She moved to push him again-anything to get his attention, anything to get him to stop staring straight ahead like a statue-and he grabbed her wrist before it could connect. He squeezed, grinding fine bones together; her breath caught in her throat, but she didn't make a sound.

He did look at her then, blue eyes frigid and remote. There wasn't much that scared Steph, but the look in his eyes made her feel like she'd fallen from a great height and couldn't hit bottom.

"I don't have to do anything," he said, letting her go and leaving the room. Her wrist throbbed, hot, and she knew she'd have a bracelet of bruises shaped like his hand.

For once, she didn't go after him.

Steph was scarce for the next four days. Damian knew that he'd earned the cold shoulder and sleeping in bed alone-she had an ugly bruise on her wrist from where he'd grabbed her. It was a shameful reminder of the dangers of his own temper, so he didn't go after her when she pulled away. If she needed space, he understood. He would have apologized, but the questions she'd throw out as soon as they were mended would lead to yet another fight. He couldn't lie to her, so he was putting off the inevitable for as long as he possibly could.

She came to him the fourth day, when he was working on the computer, and she had a book.

Not a book. The book. The ancient, leather-bound book that was usually kept in a safe that she didn't know about, protected by a password she couldn't have hoped to guess.

"What the hell is this?" Damian asked, wondering if he could play it off.

The flat betrayal in her eyes said otherwise.

"You tell me," she said. "I've been your partner for years, now. Did you really think I haven't picked up on the types of encryptions you like to use? You shouldn't have wrote me off as computer illiterate. I found the coded journal you've been keeping, but obviously I couldn't figure out the whole story. So, you're going to tell me."

"No," he said sharply. "You had no right to invade my privacy like that. No right-"

"Tell me the real story," she repeated. She dropped the book on the desk; it fell with a heavy thud that just screamed finality. "This time, don't lie to me, Damian."

He knew that was a warning. It was don't lie to me, Damian. Or else.

Damian smoothed his hand over the cover.

"I did tell you the truth. My father was killed by a gunshot during a riot. The night he died, I came to a terrible realization: a single bullet was enough to kill Batman. My father, who had forever been larger than life to me in my mind, had proven his mortality. It rattled me. I think I went a little mad. As a child of the house of al Ghul, I have had a unique view of reality."

He paused, frown lines dimpling the corners of his mouth.

"As you are well aware, my grandfather has lived for hundreds of years. He has lived long enough to have experienced most of what the world has to offer. He's lived long enough to see liars and cheats to be mistaken for gods, and to see gods die. And I am one of the only living souls to have heard his story from beginning to end. Of course, that is because I was to be used as a vessel for my grandfather's spirit to be poured into."

Steph relaxed, just a little. Pity softened her.

"You didn't tell me about that."

"If I had gone into the details of my upbringing and discussed all of the questionable things I endured, you would have made it your goal to kill my mother years ago. There are days when I toy with the idea myself." Damian took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Because of this knowledge, I knew that there are ways to cheat death-ways more reliable than the Lazarus Pits."

He drummed his fingertips on the book cover.

"This is a book on demon summoning. The night of my father's death, I went to a crossroads and called to hell until it answered."

All the color drained from Stephanie's face. Her expression was every bit as horrible as he'd feared it'd be.

"You made a deal with a demon?"

"Yes and no." His mouth was so dry, it was difficult to swallow. "I made a deal with Satan."

Her mouth hung open. Damian glanced down at his hands. He rubbed his knuckles nervously.

"I made a bid for limited immortality. So, I cannot die, but I can age. When I have grown too old, I will die and my soul will be forfeit."

"You idiot," Stephanie breathed, her shock robbing the punch from her words. "You stupid, stupid fuck. You sold your fucking soul to the devil. Do the words Faustian deal mean anything to you, genius? I can't believe you. I can't believe you could be so stupid!"

That prickled him. His face burned with shame. In retrospect, he didn't know, either. He had been too afraid, too hysterical. It'd seemed worth it, then.

Damian couldn't look up at her. There was more.

"I didn't tell you because I was afraid. When Dick..."

Her soft, horrified "Oh, no. No, no." meant that he didn't have to finish the thought.

Dick had found out when Damian had taken two bullets to the chest that had been meant for him. His reaction had been almost exactly like Stephanie's. He'd grabbed him, strong-arming him into a tight embrace, and promised that he'd find someone who could get him out of it. He'd said he'd find help. And he'd never come back.

In trying to save him, he'd very likely been killed.

"I can't go through that again," Damian continued, eyes squeezed shut. "I can't lose someone else to the search for 'help'. It's not worth it. It's not possible. The deal was made, and now I must cope with it. If I hadn't made it, I would have died yesterday. If I hadn't made it, you would have died years ago. The night that Croc's gang got you, I used my own blood in the transfusion. If I hadn't been able to spare that much blood, you wouldn't have made it until dawn."

Stephanie lightly touched his face, tracing the path that the bullet had ripped through his cheek.

"That was before you were even...before you and I..."

He leaned into her hand, finally looking up at her. Don't hate me for this, he begged.

"I was thirteen when I realized that I was in love with you. I vowed to merely kept it to myself until I was old enough that you'd see me as a man, not a child. When Father died, I gave up those feelings. But then I came back, and you..." He closed his eyes. Each word was a struggle with his pride. "Finally saw me as acceptable."

She combed her short nails through his hair and kissed him.

"I've seen you as acceptable for a while, D. But you looked seventeen at twelve, so you cheated at puberty and I didn't want to end up in jail. This was the wise choice for me to make."

Steph was trying to smile, but it wasn't quite right. It was forced, because he'd told her he'd sold his soul and that meantsomething to her. And now she was scared. Now she pitied him. Now, he could only pray that she wouldn't get it into her head that she could succeed where Grayson had woefully failed.

She was back to being reasonable, but it wouldn't last. What had changed was not something that he could reset.

The Ringmaster had a very particular way of working. He sent out the advance, men in unmarked black vehicles, to paper the city. The posters were innocuous enough, proclaiming that there was a circus coming to town. The first sunny day that they had, the posters burst into flames. Hundred of fires, all over the city, and only one boss with that M.O.: Phosphorus Rex.

The Circus of Strange was back in Gotham. At least there wasn't any real need for detective work, for once. The Circus was a show, and it was well known that the GCPD were overwhelmed by the rising level of crime. They could get away with putting on a bit of a spectacle.

The GCPD were overwhelmed, but Damian was not. Now that Stephanie knew his secret, he no longer had to hold himself back. He could throw himself into the streets boots-first-he didn't have to worry about protecting the lie of his mortality. And when you didn't have to pretend to be afraid of death, you could accomplish so, so much.

Word was spreading quickly that Batman could be peppered with bullets and survive. The Bat had been elevated to godhood, and the nonbelievers wanted to test him.

Damian was more than happy to oblige their demands for a show. It was painful, of course, but the effect that it had on the criminals was more than worth it. Finally, the image of the Batman was once again an urban legend, deathless.

It would have done his father proud.

The Circus of Strange's arena was lit by banjo lights. They were fueled by gasoline instead of electricity, belching heat. It had to have been a hundred and twenty degrees underneath the bigtop. A masked man played a massive calliope; steam whistled and sang from it in wavering, haunting notes. The inside of the tent felt like being in hell. Even with his suit's insulation, his exposed face began to drip sweat.

In came the clowns. The flaming, screaming, burning clowns. It was a charivari of the damned.

The invitation had quite obviously been a Bats-only engagement, but the Circus kidnapped a few notable so-and-sos in order to make it seem less like a move of morbid curiosity. The hostages were trussed up in the second row of bench seats around the ring. The first row of seats was on fire.

"I've got 'em," Batwoman said without having to be prompted. They wanted to see his act, not his, so she could focus on the innocents while Damian headed off against the boss.

He'd been a child the first time he'd fought Phosphorus Rex. The meta freak was a man literally on fire, his body burning endlessly.

"I'm a heat merchant," Phosphorus Rex crowed, arms spread and corona wide. "Welcome to hell, Bats!"

Hell. Hell, where he would be eventually.

But not yet. No, not yet. He was still under contract, which meant that he would survive this earthly pit.

He was engulfed by flames.

Painful didn't cut it. Agony was too small a word. Torment was too weak.

There were no words. Just burning, and the incredible awareness of everything inside him melting and boiling and regenerating, only to burn again. It was the kind of pain that was ecstasy, just at the other extreme. It'd kill a normal man-instantly.

And it did kill him. Instant by instant, over and over. He hadn't been sure if his body would keep up, but it did.

It was a game, almost. Playing chicken with death.

How much could he endure?

When would he hit too much?

The calliope started wailing a rendition of "Stars and Stripes Forever" and his burning face pulled into a smile. The song reminded him of his brother, who had been as instilled with the secrets of the circus as Damian himself had been instilled with the secrets of assassins. Under the bigtop, "Stars and Stripes Forever" was a warning. It was what the band played when something had gone horribly wrong, when someone had fallen to their death or been trampled and everyone needed to evacuate or look away. Sousa's cheery notes only punctuated the fatal slips, the emergencies. The song had reminded Dick of loss and everything going wrong, an acrobat's funeral dirge. But for Damian, in that moment, it was a victory march.

As he stood there, a burning, grinning corpse, he finally knew for certain that he had no limits. Nothing could stop him. Not guns, not fire, not a nuclear fucking bomb. When he'd been a child, his mother had told him he was a perfect. And now, he knew that he was perfect. Brilliant, burning, unstoppable.

See, Father?

Men and women poured from the tent. Fire licked up the king pole. Damian grabbed Phosphorus Rex by the throat and started punching. Underneath the flames, the radiation, and the inflammable skin, were things that bruised and broke like any other body.

It didn't take much, thankfully. He wasn't a bastard who could take many hits-never had to. He was smoking when he drew away, his face regenerated but his hands still burnt. It wouldn't take long before they healed, thankfully. He could already hear the shrill sirens and fire trucks in the distance. It was time to exit stage left.

Stephanie had freed the hostages and was waiting for him outside.

"You smell," she sucked in a shuddering breath, ashen. "You smell like," she breathed hard through her nose. "Coo-hu-hnngh-"

She doubled over, hands gripping her knees, and threw up.

Cooked. He smelled like burnt meat. Everything considered, that was exactly what he was. He'd been cooked inside and out, and he'd survived. The hurt was dwarfed by the triumph.

"Sorry," Damian said gruffly. He reached out to touch her back as she panted and gagged, but she pulled away sharply. She staggered a few steps out of his reach and vomited again.

He'd never seen her react so violently to anything.

The realization that he'd crossed a line was slow-dawning, but it settled deeply. He knew, right then, that something had changed.

She didn't speak to him for the rest of the night.

She didn't speak to him for the rest of the week. Stephanie was gone during the days, and silent unless completely necessary when they were in the field. More often than not, she chose to split up. Once upon a time, he'd begged for her to shut up and leave him alone, but now that she actually was, he couldn't deal with the quiet. It was too much, endless reverberations in his ears accusing him wordlessly of ruining something he hadn't realized he needed.

At first, it annoyed him. He was angry at her for her childish reaction, angry at himself for wanting her to return to the inane chatter that he'd badmouthed for so many years. When she didn't stop, anger fell way to fear. She'd never punished him for anything before. This was new behavior, and he didn't know what to do to make it right.

Anger and fear chased each other around until he snapped.

"Are you going to talk to me ever again, or will I have to adjust to having a mute for a partner?" Damian demanded, his last nerve finally burned through. "Will you continue to treat me as anathema, or will you fucking get over yourself? I don't want to continue to hold my breath if you are intent on punishing me for saving lives."

"Was that what you were doing with Phosphorus Rex? Saving lives?" Steph asked, eyes fever-bright. She was angry. "Looked to me like you were getting your little boy martyr on. Daddy's not going to love you more if you keep killing yourself over and over to prove how invincible he should have been." She rubbed both of her hands over her eyes. Without the fire in them, her exhaustion showed. "I can't keep watching you do this, D."

Fights between them-true fights-were rare. They had to be. They knew each other too well for it to be any other way. Once one of them drew first blood, rationality went out the window. It devolved into who could push the most buttons first, who could completely punch the air from the other's lungs with the fewest words.

He'd started it, but she would finish it. She was every bit as tenacious as he was, and he knew that she understood where to strike to make him bleed. She couldn't kill him, but she could ruin him.

It was an epiphany. It was an epiphany, crowning at the exact wrong moment.

"Get out," Damian snarled, voice low. His hands tightened on the top of the chair.

"Run that one by me one more time, Boy Wonder. I didn't hear you."

"Get out!" He roared, kicking the chair over. It crashed; she jumped reflexively. It was the temper tantrum of a child, but attached to the body of man. He could have hurt her. He knew that. "Get. OUT!"

Stephanie didn't move. She didn't look away, chin lifted stubbornly.

"If you think that you scare me, get over yourself," she said calmly, evenly. "I wasn't afraid of your father, and I'm not afraid of you. It's not your fucking city. If you don't like what I have to say, suck it up."

"This is my cave, my manor! If you don't want to be a part of this, then go. Leave before I remove you."

"I said that I didn't want to watch you kill yourself over and over. Not that I wanted to leave, and not that I don't want to be a part of this," she said. His threats bounced off her harmlessly. He'd have to stop using the blunt edge of the verbal knife and apply a point. "There has to be something that we can do-some way to get you out of this!"

"I don't want to get out of this! If I hadn't made this deal, I would have died years ago. I need it."

The words need it made her stiffen. He could just see her digging in her heels.

"So what? You're just going to-going to go to hell after you get old and gray?"

"I can't say that I believe in hell," he murmured, carefully neutral.

"How the hell could you not? Something gave you these powers, and someday you're going to have to pay it forward. And that? It's not worth it. It's not."

"I disagree. And I could feasibly prolong the inevitable." Damian paused, held his tongue for a moment, and then decided that he couldn't dangle that out without finishing the thought. "I could use the Lazarus Pit as my body ages, and I will never have to worry about dying or aging ever again."

Her eyes widened. He couldn't name the emotion in her eyes, but it made him feel like everything warm and necessary inside him had been scraped out.

"Why be Batman if you can be Batgod, huh?" Steph said, her voice shaky. "Were you planning on telling me this before I died, or were you just going to surprise me with it after you revived me a couple of times?"

Didn't she want to be with him forever?

Had he been mistaken?

The thought made him feel like something inside him had loosened and pulled free. It hurt.

"If you don't like that, go. You will not change my mind with your incessant nagging. Nothing has changed, and nothing will change."

"Do you want me to leave?"

His shoulders sagged. He couldn't find words. No was so easy, but he couldn't choke it out. He'd just screamed at her to leave, hadn't he? Hadn't that been clear enough for her? If she didn't want to be with him forever, he didn't want to be with her at all.

It was a lie. She knew that. She sensed his hesitance. Pressed her advantage.

"Do you want me to go?"

Damian's features twisted up as he tried to decide whether he wanted to be furious or heartbroken. Both felt valid enough. He righted the chair, then sunk into it, face in his hands.

"Don't."

She leaned over him, tracing the line of his jaw and following it up to the peaks of the bat-ears before carefully removing his cowl.

"I'll always love you, D," Stephanie said softly, stroking the short, sweat-damp hair at his temple. "But I can't pretend that what you're doing is okay. I can't watch you do this. What would you do if I died, and you couldn't bring me back? If you love me so much, how could you take the chance that we might not end up together after we bite the big one?"

He didn't know the answer to that. That was the problem. When he'd made his deal, when he'd laid out his plan to cheat death indefinitely, he'd never anticipated falling in love with someone. It'd seemed impossible for a man like him. He hadn't imagined a life outside of his purpose, and now he had one.

And now he was stuck with the deal, and it made everything in him feel fractured.

"If you love me, you'll stand by my choices," he said, though when it came out of his mouth it sounded more like a question. If you love me? "A woman does that for a man."

"Maybe in harem-land, but in the real world," Steph snapped, sounding tired. "It doesn't work like that."

"Why not? Why can't you stand by me? You gave up everything to fight. I only did the same."

She drew away from him. "I didn't give up my soul."

"No," he agreed, sitting up straight and fixing her with an unerring glare. "But your mother died because you were Batwoman. In protecting the city, you sacrificed her, your home, any human relationship at all. You'd resigned yourself to being yet another spinster in a cape. Before me, you had nothing."

Stephanie flinched. The startled hurt in her eyes made him fumble with the desire to immediately apologize, to make it right.

But he didn't.

"You're right. You're so right!" she said, too loudly and too enthusiastically to mean what she was saying. Each word was a blunt instrument. "What would I have done if you hadn't swooped in to save me?"

He looked away.

"That isn't what I meant."

"Really? Then tell me, Damian. What did you mean? I'm all ears. I'd love to hear about how you're not actually a deceitful, manipulative asshole. For a while, you had be believing that you were a decent human being. My. Bad."

"You're overreacting."

"Overreacting? I'm sorry, I just watched my boyfriend get turned into a walking barbecue!" Her voice broke there, and the sharp edges pressed into him. He hadn't ever thought what it looked like to her. She'd watched him die again and again. "It's a little difficult for me to wrap my head around you giving a single fuck about the future."

"I did this because I was ensuring the stability of Gotham's future. You and I are the same," he growled. He needed to make her understand. "When it comes to our duty to Gotham, all else is second."

She slapped him. The crack of her palm against his cheek resounded in the cave.

"We're not the same," she hissed, close to screaming or crying or slapping him again. "I believed you when you said that I wasn't expendable. I wouldn't give you up."

"I-" his face throbbed unevenly. "Neither would I. I wouldn't sacrifice you."

"But your soul's fair game? Is that it? Look, here's the facts. If you'd sell your soul, nothing else matters to you. You don't care about living or dying or anything else. You don't give a shit about anyone but dead old daddy. Don't kid yourself, sport."

The way she said sport made his senses buzz with angry, hectic static.

She was talking down to him. Not teasing him. Patronizing him, like he was still a child who didn't know better.

She'd never talked to him that way before. Not even when he had been a child.

"No," Damian snapped, his hands balling into fists. He didn't hit her back, but he wanted to. "I did what was necessary. It hasn't affected my quality of life, has it? No. I've traded heady maybes for conditional immortality, and it was worth it. I don't care if you respect that or not, but it was mine to barter. My life. You cannot just assume that I'd sacrifice you with any amount of levity. This is what I wanted."

"Do you still want me?"

And there it was again. It felt like a trick question. She took off her mask, and for once he couldn't read her expression; she wasn't letting him in. He couldn't tell what conclusion she'd come to, or if his explanation had been sufficient. He didn't know if he still needed to apologize, but if she was getting out of her suit it meant that she wasn't leaving. That was a staggering relief.

Damian hated her and he hated himself because he wasn't sure when was the last time he'd wanted anything more. He wanted her to accept this, let it go, and let things go back to how they'd been. He'd made the deal when he was fourteen-it'd been a part of his life ever since, and it hadn't hurt her when she hadn't known. He didn't say yes, but he pinned her up against the computer desk and fumbled with her suit's hidden zipper. That was close enough to yes. His hands shook with the plea he couldn't voice.

She didn't think he would protect her, that she wasn't cannon fodder to his father's endless crusade. He'd prove her wrong. He'd show her if he had to.

His soul was an abstract idea that he wasn't sure he believed in. But she was real, she was tangible, and she was touchable.

Steph wasn't being playful. Her kisses came with a scrape of teeth. She wrestled with his suit, pulling it down to his waist. She didn't even try to get it any further; not when she had bare skin to dig her nails into. The long, even welts she clawed down his back and shoulders disappeared almost as quickly as they appeared, so she had no reason to stop.

Something had changed. Damian tried to slow her down, tried to turn this into an apology, but she wouldn't have it. And, well, he'd never been one to take anything. He gave as good as he got. If she wanted it to be like this, it'd be like this. It was just a different kind of fight. After a brief battle with the tiny zipper, he got her suit peeled off of her. He had to be careful, because her skin kept and showed any marks.

"God, your breasts," Damian choked out, like he'd been keeping that pent up since he was ten years old. It wasn't a full thought, nothing careful or illuminating. It was just the uncomplicated reverence of a teenage boy. His rough thumb brushed over one of her nipples, curious hands gently-and then not so gently-squeezing her full tits. She had silvery little lines in them, stretch marks, and he remembered that she had been a mother, once. Stephanie had been younger than he was when she'd delivered her bastard.

It made him angry, and he wasn't sure why. Even though she'd given up the baby, it still had left marks. His mother had not carried him or suffered with him or been stretched and sullied by the shameful, ugly miracle of childbirth. He was not her child; he was her creation. Stephanie had more of a visible connection to the bastard she'd given up than his mother had to him.

He bit her nipple, sucking hard on a mouthful of warm skin.

"Not that hard," she warned, fingers knotted in his hair. Damian grunted, venting his displeasure at being told what to do with a sharp roll of his hips. He was still aching to fight, still angry. She hissed and arched.

"Harder."

He wished the stupid woman would just make up her mind.

The overhead lights were off, so they were lit only by the electric blue glow of the console's monitors. Her bare flesh was luminous, the contrast between her skim milk colored skin and his duskier tone more obvious than ever. She glowed under his hands, between his fingers.

Steph fumbled with his utility belt, jimmying the latch and letting it drop to the floor with a clatter. He kept one arm looped around her back, and used his other to help her get himself out of his jock and his suit's pants. As soon as they'd untangled themselves from their uniforms enough to do so, he held onto her hips and thrust into her. He didn't hesitate, didn't ease himself in; she huffed a breath that was one part whine. He knew he was hurting her, that she needed more time and gentleness before she could take all of him, but she was letting him do it. She was making him do it-grinding herself into him.

Maybe she was trying to make herself hate him. Maybe she was trying to make him hate her. He couldn't tell, but he hated it. Hemade himself stop, still and trembling, and tried to gather himself well enough to piece together an apology. She arched, hooking her boot around his leg, and pressed the heel into his thigh until he bottomed out. Damian's hips jerked in rabbity automatic thrusts, and he swore.

She fisted her hands against his back.

"Damian," Stephanie whispered as he found a rhythm and she hid her face in the crook of his neck. "I'm-I'm sorry."

He thought that she was apologizing for the argument. That it'd get better.

He didn't realize then that she meant goodbye.

She was gone when he woke up. Her side of their bed was cold.

The pillow smelled like him and her and he was suddenly so blindingly angry he couldn't breathe. He punched the pillow hard, snarling a curse without syllables.

She'd left nothing but the smell of her sex and her hair and her sweat.

Stupid, stupid woman. He hated her. He hated her so much, it was painful. He hated her so much, he shook and felt like he'd vomit from the force of it.

His mother's tutors had thoroughly indoctrinated him on the concepts of nature, on Darwin and biological imperatives. He'd been meant to be above such things, such base desires, and as a child he hadn't thought it would ever be a challenge. Love was chemistry: serotonin, dopamine, norepinephrine, and phenylenthylamine. It could be replicated, could be synthesized. He'd scoffed at the idea of animals that mated for life, of swans that twined their necks together like the arches of a heart, of wolves that starved to death in mourning when their mate died prematurely. He hadn't been able to wrap his mind around loving someone so much, you couldn't imagine a future without them.

He understood it, now.

But, he reflected as he sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the square of floor between his bare feet, he was not a son of Darwin. He was not a creature created by natural selection, a man possessing only his inborn gifts. He was an instrument, bred for a very specific purpose.

And that was why, instead of folding in on himself and dying like he wanted to, Damian reached for his cowl.

He was Batman. Justice. The son of his father, the inheritor of his burdens. He had given up his soul for this, so he had to make it worth his sacrifice. This was what his father, the Batman, would have wanted him to do.

That was what mattered.

That was the only thing that mattered.

He wasn't the first one on the scene four months later, when the GCPD found her body. The police got there before he did-even Barbara got there before he did, despite all the stairs that led up to the church and her cumbersome wheelchair.

Batwoman had been nailed to the cross, cape pulled wide like an actual pair of bat wings. Her cowl had been ripped off and her buttery yellow hair shaved. It'd been done messily, rusty cuts dried around the nape of her neck and ear. Ear, singular. They'd cut the other off. The entire setup was a mixed metaphor, too many ugly details to mean anything more articulate than die, Bat, die.

Commissioner Gordon saw him up in the rafters, long since trained to look for shadows that didn't quite blend. Her blue eyes were electric, furious; there was no question that this was the last straw for her, the final betrayal. She hadn't forgiven him for Dick and Bruce, and she'd never forgive him for Stephanie.

Damian ducked back further into the dark and watched as the GCPD began the deposition.

Whatever was left in him pulled tight and calcified.

His brother was already at the designated spot when he arrived. Jason had dyed his hair black again, though Damian could hardly understand why. Maybe he switched back and forth so that no one knew which was real, what about him was true and fact and what had been built up by the mythos of the Red Hood. Stephanie had understood him, but Damian did not. What tied them together was their shared legacy, the role of Father's Least Favorite Son, and the 'sister' that had existed between them.

"Aren't you looking sharp," Jason snorted as he stepped into the luminous circle under the street lamp, sizing him up out of the corner of his eye. "But what happened to the hair, chum? Or is this just your new look?"

He hadn't come as Batman. No domino mask, no cowl, no hood. He was dressed neatly, in a gray wool blazer, a button-down white shirt, and a tie. If not for his black leather gloves, he could have been going to a wedding-or a funeral. He'd shaved his hair, cropping it down too close-cut bristle.

Damian's throat worked, but he was outwardly calm. He didn't say anything, which made Jason's face pull into a cheshire grin. It didn't reach his eyes, so it looked more like a grimace.

"Started falling out, huh? Stress does that-believe me, been there. I could never tell if it was falling out 'cause I was dying it all the time or just fretting 'til it thinned. Might've been both."

"Do you have what I asked for," Damian asked icily. "Or am I wasting my time?"

"I got it. You're not gonna like it, but I got it."

He unzipped his leather jacket, pulling out a creased manila folder. It was thin, official-looking.

"Read it," Jason said, tossing it to him. "Then destroy it. I've already scrubbed the digital footprint."

It was the autopsy report. The Commissioner had made damned sure that he'd been locked out of the system, so he hadn't been able to retrieve the information himself-not as Batman, and certainly not as Damian Wayne. But Jason Todd had his ways, and a surprising emotional investment.

He'd volunteered to get it. He hadn't even had to ask for him to get involved. Jason had strong, strong views on wrapping up loose ends. They both had to know how it'd happened, what had killed her. It was a part of the mourning process.

Damian opened the file, and his stomach lurched violently.

He could have underlined what he wanted him to see, but he hadn't needed to. It jumped out at him, though he had to read and reread it. A wave of dizziness crested over him and he had to swallow down his nausea.

Jason looked at him sidelong. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket's pocket, tapping it against the flat of his palm.

"What d'you know," he said smoothly. "You do have feelings, just like a real boy. I'm guessing this is news to you."

"I had no idea," Damian whispered. His face felt hot, his tie choking him. He wanted to rip up the report, but he couldn't make himself close the file.

"Think she knew?"

He shook his head, hard. "No. She wouldn't have been patrolling had she known."

Jason leaned against the wall next to him. He wordlessly offered him a cigarette and a light. "So, I'm gonna be honest with you. He dies tonight-that's all there is to it. I'm giving you first dibs, but if you don't do it, I will." He lit his own cigarette, taking a long drag. The cherry lit up the curves of his cheekbones, then the Zippo closed with a metallic clack. "Fucker cost me the chance to be that uncle." He handed him the lighter. Damian folded the autopsy report neatly, then skated the flame along the bottom edge until it caught fire. No one could know how badly he'd failed. Nobody else could ever know the extent of his loss. Todd wouldn't tell. It was on his head, too. They'd both failed her. Damian took the lit cigarette. It was a small, sorry peace offering. He'd never smoked before, but he'd borrow any vice if it'd take the tremors out of his hands.

"Are you positive that it was him?" He asked, his voice pulled steely tight.

Jason nodded. "Yeah. The heads I kicked in were full of all kinds of legit info. They were reliable sources before their tragic skull fractures. It all checks out. Good enough for you, chief?"

"Yes. It is good enough for me," Damian murmured.

They finished their cigarettes in silence, watching the autopsy report curl up and burn out at their feet. Jason ground the butt of his cig under his boot, squeezing Damian's shoulder. It was reassuring, in a way.

"Happy hunting."

Had this been his father's story and not his own, the night would have played out differently.

All of the Arkham regulars had changed since his father's death. Ivy had gone back to the Green. The Terrible Trio had turned themselves into true animals. Killer Croc had become an urban legend that lived in the sewers. Harley'd lost so much, she'd ended up Loveless. Jason had struck a balance, which was its own kind of fucked up.

And Zsasz had found God, or something like Him.

The way that Jason's informants had painted it, it'd gone down like this. After she had left him, Batwoman had been back on her own beat. She'd been fine, capable, but hunted. Zsasz had reevaluated some things, had traded in his old addictions for something new. He'd convalesced under the care of some Catholic nurses; they'd shown him the Light, using the way that Batwoman had saved him as an example of grace.

And Zsasz had assimilated all of that information, twisting it and warping it so that it'd fit into the dark, complicated corridors inside him. He'd decided to return the favor, saving Batwoman from the night itself. That was why the crime scene had been so busy, so desperate and confused-he hadn't known how to provide a true sacrifice, so he'd pulled from his old life.

Stephanie hadn't stood a chance on her own. When Zsasz had knocked on her door to share the good news about his Savior, she'd been four months pregnant. Weakened, overextended, and without a friend in the world to watch over her.

He'd condemned her. Barbara had refused to work with her if she aided him, and he-stupid, arrogant fool that he was-had pushed her away. She'd died alone. He'd assumed that she would go back to her, that she'd return to how she'd been before he had returned to Gotham, but he should have known better. Assumptions were stupid. Assumptions were messy. Assumptions killed.

His fault. All his fault.

Damian couldn't make that right. He couldn't apologize, but he could do the one thing that his father had not been able to: he could get even. He could choose not to forgive.

Zsasz wouldn't be allowed to live. Not like Joker. Not like Black Mask.

For better or worse, Damian was not as kind as his father had been.

Mr. Zsasz was living in a church-funded halfway home. Serenity House, it was called. There was a little cross on the door, a Bible visible in every room. The plump worker at the door had smiled at him, her dimples deep, when he'd introduced himself as Mr. Zsasz's nephew. He'd spun her a bright tale of familial obligation and pride, or wanting so badly to connect with his uncle now that he'd turned over a new leaf. She'd fallen in love with him a little, told him she'd pray for a good, dear boy like him, and then left him alone in a room with the monster who had killed his partner.

Damian smiled as he closed and locked the door behind him.

"Who are you?" Zsasz asked, an unvoiced threat braided into the question.

"An old acquaintance," Damian said, still baring all of his teeth at him. He sensed him on an animal level; an addict knows an addict, always. "We had a mutual friend. The Batwoman."

"God bless her soul," the monster intoned gravely. Damian's nostrils flared.

"You sort of forced God's hand in the matter, don't you think?" He asked, circling closer. Zsasz's hands twisted the cane he was leaning against. "You did send him her soul before her time."

The first time he'd fought him, he'd been astounded at his speed. His strikes had been automatic, so natural he hadn't left many tells. The blade had been a part of him, so this time, he'd known that he'd have his sharps on him somewhere. He wasn't disappointed. He twisted his cane one last time, and that was enough of a tell. He grabbed the cane; half of it pulled free with a singing metallic note.

The cane had a false bottom. It separated, revealing a long, slender blade. The old sword-in-a-cane trick. Damian clucked his tongue reproachfully.

"What happened to doing God's work, Mr. Zsasz? Don't you believe that he'll protect you? You wouldn't be carrying a blade if you had true faith."

"I am a man of God! I fear nothing! I saved her. This-see this? This, here?" One of Zsasz's long fingers drummed a still-healing cut on his chest, over his heart. "This is her. This is where I saved her. When God reads me, he'll know where to find her."

"You," Damian snarled. It was the only warning that he gave.

In one swift, smooth movement, he skewered Zsasz straight through the belly. His mouth opened and closed like a puppet's, teeth clacking.

"I just stabbed you in the stomach," he informed him coolly, though he was surely aware that he had a blade poking out his back and a ridiculous length of cane jutting out of his front. "You know what that means? Gastric perforation. As we speak, the hydrochloric acid of the peptic juices is mixing in your bloodstream. This will lead to toxemia-agonizing, isn't it? You have about fifteen minutes to live. How will we spend them, Zsasz? On a confessional? Please, allow me to begin with one of my own."

Damian pulled out the blade, then pushed on his abdomen. Hard. Acid seeped and spread.

"I gave you that cut because you were missing a mark, you foul piece of shit, and I know how important it is that you keep score. You see, when you 'saved' Batwoman, you killed the child she was carrying."

He pushed harder. Zsasz howled.

"My child," Damian snarled, lips pulled back to bare his teeth. "I thought it only right that I catch you up on your hatchmarks."

Zsasz vomited blood. It bubbled out of the corners of his mouth, streaking his uneven teeth a filmy pink, and stained his shirt with fat drops like red coins.

"Ah, there we are," said Damian, ripping off a length of his sleeve, balling it up, and stuffing it into his mouth. "Hematemesis. Lovely. Your punctured stomach is filling with blood. How is dying? Everything that you dreamed it would be? Have you transcended the pain, or has the pain itself become transcendental? How the fuck is martyrdom, Mr. Zsasz?"

The scarred-up man's eyes rolled until the whites showed balefully.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked, since his victim wasn't giving him the satisfying fifteen minutes he'd hoped for. He didn't get it yet. He didn't understand the poetry behind it all, the cyclic reason he was giving him those fifteen minutes in the first place.

He wanted him to know. He wanted him to know exactly what he'd done and exactly why he couldn't be forgiven, but he wasn't showing any hints of having picked up on the punchline. So much for subtlety.

"No?" Damian jammed his fingers into the wound, then very deliberately smeared his bloody hand across his eyes. It left warpaint, a dripping slick domino mask. "How about now?"

Recognition lit in Zsasz's eyes, chased closely by horror. It had the manic fire of a stupid, trapped beast. He'd expected more than a man who fell apart like a stuck pig.

"How about now?" Damian repeated, this time in his father's voice.

He'd never seen Zsasz scared before. The animal knew that he was dying, then; knew it on a level he could not ignore.

"You took everything that I had. I will not forgive you for that."

He watched as the monster moaned and bled and slavered. It was an excruciating, ignoble way to die. When his end was near, Damian didn't beleaguer it. He might have, not so long ago, but he truly just didn't want to be near the man long enough to torture him for any considerable length of time. He wanted to make him die, and to make it hurt.

But he did not torture.

He had his own lines that he wouldn't cross. Torture was what separated him from the true psychopaths. Didn't it?

He cut off Zsasz's head, ending his subhuman whines and pleads. He left it there-it was no trophy to him. Keeping the proof of his victory wasn't important, not this time.

As he left, he placed an anonymous tip. He knew that the Commissioner would recognize his handiwork.

Good.

Maybe she'd realize that he was to be left alone and allowed to work however he chose. Her father had let his father rule the city. Now, she would step aside and allow him to do the same.

Of course, his father wouldn't have been there, wouldn't have done this.

He'd finally buried him.

He was Batman, now.

The trophy case was empty, but not for his lack of trying. The Commissioner had been adamant that he couldn't have any part of her-not her body and not her costume, not as Damian Wayne and not as Batman. The GCPD had barred him from her funeral, claiming that he was a person of interest in her murder. He could have killed them all for that, for that one cutting insult, but she wouldn't have wanted it.

He'd sat in his car and watched the procession from a distance. There couldn't have been more than ten people there. Tim gave the eulogy; he could have read his lips, but he didn't want to hear what he had to say, what kind of friend he'd paint himself as. He didn't want to know if Barbara had told him about the second child that she had lost. Drake hadn't come in on his white horse to save her, so he had no right to talk about her.

He knew why Barbara wouldn't let him near her remains. She thought he would try to bring her back.

Oh, and he would have. He would have bartered, begged, and laid himself prone at his mother's feet for access to the Lazarus Pit. He would have done anything.

But Barbara ordered her cremation. He could have killed her for that, too.

So the trophy case was empty, and he couldn't change that.

He'd keep his promise. No more Robins, no more Batgirls, no more Batwomen. No one would replace her. No one.

Alfred trilled a question, headbutting his thigh. When he didn't give the cat the attention he was looking for, he pushed against his hand. He licked the blood from his fingers, a soft rasp of pink tongue. Damian didn't shove the cat away, just silently allowed him to lick his hands clean.

From then on, there would only be Batman. An undying, unstoppable Batman with blood on his hands.

Damian had never felt closer to his parents, nor had he ever hated them so much. He'd become exactly what they wanted him to be.

Long live the Bat.


	8. ALTERNATE END: Part 1

She couldn't sleep, though her body screamed for it. She was exhausted from the patrol, emotionally run dry from their argument, but too weirdly energized to even close her eyes. There were the usual bruises, but some not-as-usual ones were already making themselves known. Damian had left marks, violet fingerprints and a raw ache between her legs. Roughness wasn't unusual between them, but that usually ended in them collapsing in a boneless, satiated pile—-the good kind of aches and bruises. This hadn't been good in any way. He'd finished, and when his deft thumb had pressed against her clit, she'd pushed him away. She hadn't let him get her off—-couldn't, because she'd been too torn up, too sensitive, both physically and emotionally. She'd wanted to make it a good send-off—-wanted him to know that she didn't hate him—-but it'd hurt too much. He'd made a low noise of derision, rolling over so that his back was to her.

Steph stared at Damian's back until his breathing deepened, then slowed. Getting out of bed without waking him wasn't easy, but she was Batwoman. Sneaking around was a big part of the job description.

She'd didn't want to leave, hated that she had to, but she couldn't watch him kill himself over and over again. She couldn't be a part of his life when he was going to use her as a desperate lifeline, bringing her back from the dead if the Brown luck kicked in too hard and took her before her time. Something had changed in Damian after he'd told her about the deal he'd made. He'd let go of his sense of self-preservation. When he'd been trying to pretend that he was still mortal, he'd fought clean and he'd fought smart. When he'd dropped the pretense, he'd become manic. Sometimes, she thought he wanted to bleed and die. Sometimes, she thought that he truly believed he deserved it. It was selfish, but she didn't want to watch him do that to himself—-it was changing him, making him harden into something self-hating and bitter. Masochism didn't even begin to describe what he was putting himself through.

It was horrific. It wasn't okay, and she couldn't pretend otherwise. A part of her hoped—-_prayed_, and she wasn't the praying type—-that if she left, he'd take a critical look at what he was doing. Maybe, he'd quit killing himself over approval he would never get and just—-just _wake up._Maybe he'd start fighting for himself, instead of just fighting himself. She had to hope, but hope wasn't coming as easily as it usually did.

She wondered if this was how Dick had felt the night he'd left. If the search for an answer hadn't killed him, she would've been tempted to pack her bags and take the same trip. That's what she did—-who she was. Stephanie Brown fought for her loved ones, even when they wouldn't do it themselves.

This time, that wasn't an option. She couldn't _make_ him want mortality. She couldn't _make_ him want his own soul. She couldn't _make_ him want her love more than the love of his dead father. It was his choice.

So, she had to go. She'd decided that she had to go before they'd returned to the cave that night, but she still hadn't wrapped her head around the enormity of what leaving entailed. If she left, she wouldn't be coming back. He wouldn't allow it. Steph knew that on a rational level, but it hadn't sunken in. She didn't pack like she had finality in mind—-she barely packed at all. She suited up, then threw a random, blind assortment of clothing into a dufflebag.

It wasn't until that moment that she realized exactly how rooted to him she'd become. She had no money of her own anymore, and bringing along her Wayne account card was not going to happen. The Compact was Wayne property, and most of her few material possessions weren't worth lugging with her. She'd settled in, and she'd settled deep. Their partnership hadn't felt like it'd ever dissolve, so she'd neglected to safeguard herself. This wasn't a scenario she'd envisioned, much less planned for.

Damian had been right. Without him, she didn't have much.

Steph had her suit, a dufflebag full of clothes, and no idea what to do with herself or where to go.

"_Mmmmraiow?"_

Alfred's questioning meow made Steph almost jump clear out of her skin. She'd been packing and dressing as quickly and silently as possible, knowing that Damian wouldn't be asleep for long, and that if he caught her mid-exit the ensuing fight would make their earlier argument look like a mild exchange of pleasantries.

But it was the cat that'd caught her, not his master. She shushed him with a finger to her lips, regretting not closing the door more firmly behind her when she'd slipped out of his bedroom.

"_Shhhh._ Don't go all guard dog on me. I've gotta go—-I'm sorry."

Alfred's ears flicked back, and he meowed again, louder.

"_Shhhh!"_ Steph whisper-hissed, shouldering her half-full bag and walking out of her room. She closed the door behind her, justifying that Damian would look for her there first, so Alfred wouldn't be trapped for long.

He wasn't having any of that. There was an audible thump as the cat_bodychecked_ the door, yowling. He scratched desperately, making such a racket that she had to open to door again and let him out. He'd puffed out into a furious black and white ball, ears flattened and tail lashing.

Steph knelt down and stroked the top of his head.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. Even if the cat was only bothering her because she wasn't sticking to her usual schedule and he didn't like being shut into rooms, talking to him made her feel better. She couldn't say goodbye to Damian, so Alfred would have to do. "I love you, and I love D, but he's crashing. If I go, he has a chance of pulling out of it. If I stay, he has no reason to change what he's doing."

Alfred stretched up on his back legs, paws on her knees, and headbutted her hands until she rubbed his ears.

"Take care of him, Alfie. He's going to think I'm abandoning him, so he'll need some serious TLC when he wakes up. Don't let anything happen to him."

The cat looked up at her with owlish yellow eyes, like he understood the task she'd given him. He slid to all fours again, padding silently back down the hall.

Stephanie zipped up her boots and left. She walked about two miles, not even paying attention to the direction she'd chosen. She would have gone further, maybe made it to the city proper, but she was running on fumes. If she didn't get away quickly enough, _really_ away, she'd double back. Staying would be the worst thing for him, so she choked down what little remained of her pride and popped open one of the pouches on her utility belt that she'd mentally labeled _only in category five emergencies._

She stared at the communicator for at least three full minutes before she screwed her eyes shut and dialed the code.

It didn't even make it to a second ring before Tim picked up.

"Steph?" There was panic in his voice, the sharpness of it dulled by sleep-clogged confusion. She'd woken him up—-and duh, it was a quarter after five and all the good vigilante boys and girls had hung up their capes for the night.

"Hi," she said, forcing cheerfulness with such ferocity, she barely sounded like herself. "It's me. Sorry about the hour."

"S'okay," Tim mumble-slurred. She could just _see_ his expression on the other end of the line—-a deep worry-line creasing his forehead as he rubbed his eyes and tried to wake himself up. He hadn't changed as much since age fourteen as he'd like to think he had. Some quirks, some mannerisms, were static. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I—-it's not an emergency, but."

Steph paused. Realized she was sore and tired to the point of tears, penniless and holding a dufflebag full of more clean underwear than actual clothes. It'd been a while since Brown Luck had sent her hurtling toward rock bottom this quickly.

"Have you got a couch or something your favorite ex could crash on?" She asked, and tried hard not to sound like she wanted to cry.

Tim swore under his breath, at length. She could just barely hear a mumbled second voice in the background.

"What did he do?" he demanded, all traces of sleepiness chased away by anger.

To have her old Boy Wonder getting self-righteously worked up on her behalf _hurt_. She dragged in a ragged breath.

"Long story. I left. I just—-I need somewhere to stay for a few days. Somewhere not Gotham."

"Where are you at?" A beat. "Never mind. Just keep talking."

"I'm sorry," she said again, sagging. "This isn't like me. You know this isn't like me. I'm not this person."

"Hey," he said, his tone gentling. "I know. You don't have to apologize, Steph. I'm glad you called. I didn't think you still had this communicator."

She'd stored it in her belt, untouched, for two years. They'd been a good two years, so she hadn't thought she'd ever need to use it. Still, Bruce Wayne had drilled in at least a basic level of preparedness into every bird and bat he personally trained. She couldn't shake it.

"Better safe than sorry, right?" Steph said with a faint, watery laugh. "I—-"

"Hey!" boomed a voice from above. She craned her head back so quickly, she almost gave herself whiplash.

Kon hovered in the air, dressed only in loose pajama pants. His hair was still flattened on one side from sleep.

"A little bird told me you could use a pick-up," he said, and grinned. It wasn't a Superman smile, but it was close enough.

"I'll see you in a few," Tim said, hanging up.

* * *

><p>She'd expected Tim to give her a thorough interrogation as soon as she walked in the door, but he respected that she was a goddamned mess and didn't want to talk about it. She let him assume the worst, because she didn't want to outline the complexities of the situation. She knew that if she tried to lay it all out end to end, she'd start crying, and then he'd get even more worked up. He didn't have a lot of love in him when it came to Damian, so it didn't take much to get him pissed off at his youngest brother. He knew her, and he knew that she didn't leave someone for just <em>any<em> old reason. It took more than hell and high water to fracture her loyalty.

If Tim's expression hadn't just screamed _I knew this would happen_, maybe she would have sat down with him and talked and sobbed her exhausted little heart out. She couldn't handle him telling her how bad Damian was, because _that_ wasn't the reason she'd left.

It wasn't her that he'd been hurting. Not directly, at least. She'd been his secondary victim.

Tim had fussed over her for a while, setting her up in a spare bedroom with pillows and blankets and express instructions to tell him if she needed anything. Steph thanked him, nodded, and fell into bed as soon as she'd wriggled out of her suit and boots. Too tired to cry, she'd slipped off into a dreamless sleep.

Damian called Tim early the next morning, just to make sure she was with him. He didn't beg her to come back, and, according to Tim, he barely even sounded upset. It'd pissed Tim off, since he'd hung up after getting confirmation that yes, she was staying with him and yes, she was fine, but Steph knew better. She'd hit his pride where it hurt, so he'd gone full-out ice queen. He wouldn't come after her. There would be no desperate wooing, no begs for her to come back, no promises to change. That wasn't how Damian worked.

The cape community was full of dirty gossips, so it wasn't long before she started getting calls and drop-in visits. Kara was first—-there the next morning, stress-cooking piles of pancakes and talking a mile a minute. Literally, a full mile a minute; her words bled together beyond human comprehension until Steph had hugged her and told her that she was okay. It was an uncomfortable turn around, hugging Kara when she was the one falling apart in slow motion, but Steph was a giver and a caretaker. If she concentrated on herself for too long, she'd lose it.

The parade of friends 'just stopping by to say hi' was encouraging, in a way. Sometimes, she forgot how many friends she actually had. Gotham was a dark smirch on the map, anymore—-not many chose to visit there, much less live there. As soon as she ventured away from the dank streets—-away from her partner—-the old acquaintances bloomed from the woodwork.

Her physical and mental well-being were public knowledge and public discourse, apparently. It'd been touching at first that so many cared, but she got sick of it after the first two weeks. She'd always known that Damian had a rep—-and not in a good way—-but to experience what they felt about him firsthand was awful. And she got it—-really, she did. In most break-ups, both parties wanted their friends to make them feel like the wronged one, the one who'd been mistreated. They expected her to be angry with him, and either badmouthed him openly, or threatened to go after him like it was open season on any and all Wayne bastards. Had it really been a break-up, she would have encouraged it. But their situation was a weird one, and she couldn't make herself go into the details of why she wasn't out for his blood for kicking her out—-or even why she didn't consider herself kicked out, or them even really _broken up._

The nuances were kept to herself, and her friends came to their own conclusions. Steph spent an exhausting two weeks fielding questions and forcing superpowered pals to _not_ 'get even' for her. Tim had wanted to freeze him out of the company ("Just until he gets his head out of his ass! It's not like he's done much for the company lately, anyway. You know that I'm right!"), Kara had wanted to punch him ("Just once! He won't clear orbit! Pinkie swear!"), Milagro had wanted to strand him on the moon ("Just for a couple of hours, _hermana!_ I'll give him oxygen! Lantern's honor!"), and Iris had forwent getting her approval altogether. The speedster had zoomed to the Batcave and given Damian a piece of her mind, in such a pitch and speed that his ears had probably rang for days after. Milagro had gone after her and carted her away, but even when thrown over her girlfriend's shoulder, Irey had flailed and continued her superspeed rant.

Babs had sent her flowers and a card. All it had said was _You made the right choice for yourself._

That was when Steph decided that she needed even more distance between herself and Gotham. When Beryl—-Beryl Hutchinson, one-time Squire and current Knightess—-had offered her a place to stay while she sorted herself out, she took her up on it. Tim booked her ticket and gave her access to an account that Damian could neither monitor nor control. She didn't like being tied to Wayne money still, but beggers couldn't be choosers, and it wasn't like she could make it with a nine-to-five job. Her job experience lay in fast food and crimefighting, and neither paid well. She thanked Tim, deeply and honestly and awkwardly, because he put her up for almost a full month, no questions asked. He'd been good to her, good in that way she'd almost forgotten he could be. Tough times remind you of who your real friends are, and he'd popped in to stake his claim as _friend_ once again. She counted it as a silver lining of the whole experience.

The flight to England was a nightmare. She'd gone first class, but air travel had never jived well with her. Heap a little bit of homesickness (and so, so many complicated feelings attached to the fact that Wayne Manor had turned into her _home_) and a lot of stress, and you have one ironically queasy bat in flight. The first three hours of the seven hour flight saw more of her in the bathroom, puking her guts up, than in her seat. When air turbulence hit, she desperately wished the toilet had some kind of seat belt option in it, too.

Steph lurched to her seat and vowed to steal as many airsickness bags as necessary to survive the rest of her flight. When she'd left, her neighboring seat had been unoccupied, but a not-so-mysterious stranger had shown up from God only knew where.

Cassandra Cain had her ways. She knew how to make an entrance, even if said entrance bent the laws of believability. It didn't surprise Steph as much as it should have that her old friend had found out when and where she was taking off from and had orchestrated her way aboard. With Cass, all things were possible. She'd turned into more of a shadow than a woman in recent years—-personally, Steph likened her to a tiny Asian mix of James Bond, Bruce Lee, and Carmen Sandiego, liberally seasoned with Bat flavoring. She never knew when Cass would show up, but it always seemed to be when she needed her.

"Hi," Cass said, and spared her a faint smile. With her, smiles lived more in the eyes than in the mouth, and hers were very bright.

"Hi," Steph said, buckling herself back into her seat. She wrapped herself up with Cass as best she could while still staying in her seat, octopus limbs and a need for comfort she hadn't been able to show anyone else.

Cassandra's arms were always strong, always steady. She didn't ask questions, and she didn't make threats or demands. She just held her, and Steph finally let go and sobbed herself dry. The people in neighboring aisles gave them awkward looks, either embarrassed for the snot-nosed blond woman clinging to the seatmate or annoyed by the noise Steph was making. For once, she didn't care. Every single person on that plane could blow her, for all she cared.

She did calm down eventually, and having a good hard cry had helped with the nausea, even if it had done horrific things to her mascara. With Cass's arm around her, she managed to sleep for the next two hours—-and she counted all of her lucky stars for that, because rare, sharp anxiety had kept her awake for most of the week. Babs had been right; she _was_ doing the right thing for herself, but it felt way too much like running away for her comfort. Running away was one of those _things_with her—-something that she'd promised herself she'd had her fill of and would never do again.

And yet, here she was: hopping the pond, because Metropolis wasn't far enough away from Damian. At this rate, she'd end up back in Africa in another month.

She had to mercilessly crush that thought, because it brought the airsickness back full-force. Her stomach twisted and knotted, though she'd long since thrown up everything in it.

Cass saw the heaves coming—-always, always saw a body's actions before they played out—-and handed her one of the baggies. Most people would have felt ashamed of throwing up like that, but this was her and Cass. Not so many years ago, they'd been Batgirl and Spoiler, girlfriends who'd trained and beat each other up until they hurled.

The good ol' days.

Cass stroked her hair, her expression unreadable, and Steph dozed as well as her nausea allowed her to. When the landing warning came over the intercom, her features had rearranged from mild serenity to full blankness.

"You've been sick?" Cass asked, her dark eyes taking her in with incredible intensity. When Cassandra looked at someone, really _looked_at them, she saw everything—-all of the nonverbal cues that spoke to her more clearly than language ever had.

"Stress," Steph said shortly, massaging her temples. The lingering nausea seemed to be paired with headaches, more often than not, and they seemed to be getting worse, not better. A vindictive little streak way down deep hoped that Damian was doing even an eighth as terribly as she was.

Cass didn't even blink. Her sphinx-stare made her skin prickle weirdly.

"No," she said, very quietly.

"No?" Steph echoed, eyebrows arched. "What do you mean, _no?"_

"No," Cass said, her lips thinning into a frown. "Not sick."

Steph's face felt oddly hot. Well, of course she wasn't _sick_ sick. She was a bundle of broken-up emotions, crunched-up promises, and stripped nerves. This, right here, was why she'd sworn off serious relationships. Steph didn't know how to do anything halfway, so when she committed to someone she committed on a til'-death-do-we-part level even if rings and things weren't involved. She was a master of caring _way_ too much, and what she'd had with Damian had been her first real, mature relationship. Nobody had gotten into her as deeply as he had, and to cut herself off from him for such a bizarre reason had made her react physically.

But the way that Cass said it made her feel strange, like there was some secret on her face that only she could read and interpret. She hadn't gotten an x-ray vision upgrade, had she?

"Be well," Cassandra said, and there was a strange _plead_ in her tone that Steph didn't have any idea how to process. She kissed her forehead, then unbuckled her seatbelt the moment the pilot shut off the warning light.

And then she slid out of the seat and turned and left without another word.

"Aren't we going to do girl things and have healing adventures?" Steph called after her, but Black Bat had already disappeared seamlessly into the milling bodies preparing to depart.

Steph didn't know what the _hell_ had just happened, but she didn't like it.

* * *

><p>Damian was no stranger to loss. His was an odd dichotomy, because at face value he was a man who had it all—-he had exceptional health, superior genetics, good looks, and more money than he could possibly spend. He did not want for much, and the only times his base needs hadn't been met had been when one of his various teachers had been teaching him a lesson. He never went hungry, never had to settle for less than the very finest of things life had to offer, and always had a roof over his head. His peers—-other twenty-year-old men—-subsisted off of microwave dinners, minimum wage jobs, and the damning knowledge that they may never own a house of their own in the current economy. Damian had been given an <em>island<em> for his eighth birthday.

And yet, he had never been able to hold onto anything but the physical, the things granted to him by his birthright. The things he loved died. The people he loved left. He was the epitome of the man who had it all and had nothing, all at once. So, after his mother had abandoned him, and Pennyworth had passed away, and his father had been murdered, and his brother had died, he'd thought that he had reached his threshold for feeling loss. Nothing else could hurt him the way that each successive loss had; after Dick, he could not hurt more.

He'd been so wrong. So, so wrong.

Stephanie had left him. This was different from the other losses, a new type of loss. He had been the one to leave Mother, and Father and Pennyworth had not chosen to die. Dick had left, yes, but he'd had every intention of returning. Furthermore, they were family. Stephanie was family, but she was the family that he'd _made_. She was the one that he loved, and she had no intention of coming back. The other losses had been involuntary; her leaving him had been deliberate.

She'd wanted to go, so he'd let her.

Damian hadn't known that sexual-emotional-romantic-_necessary_ love would ache when it fractured. If he had, he might have safeguarded himself from it and refused to indulge. He wasn't sure if the good had been good enough to justify how bad it felt now, in the wake of it all falling apart. He struggled with the pros and cons, with making rational sense of the mess inside him. The left-brained analyst in him didn't know what to do or how to react, so he gave up.

The first week, he left his bed only twice—-both times, to replenish Alfred's cat food. He didn't eat, he didn't sleep, and his thoughts chased each other in mad, desperate circles. Damian couldn't think of himself as a creature capable of depression and mourning, so he didn't put words to his lack of action. Being who and what he was, he didn't need to eat or sleep to keep alive. Even if he kept bed-bound perpetually, he wouldn't die.

He didn't want to die—-no, he was a pragmatist, not a man prone to theatrical dramatics. He was the Batman, and he would continue to be the Batman until old age took him. Nothing changed that, not even the loss of his partner. His 'vacation' into self-pity lasted only that first week—-a mute, horrible week where he wondered what could have been had he not bartered away that scrap of metaphysical fluff that meant so_much_ to her. Logic said that _they_ never would have been, because one or the other would have died long before they became a couple.

Still, he wondered. He wondered, and he wished, because praying for a different ending to this story was beyond his realm of belief.

One day, almost two weeks after the night Stephanie left, Alfred brought in a tribute. He'd killed another bat, and he laid it deliberately on Steph's pillow. It bled through the pillowcase, making a mess, but Damian didn't have the energy to scold the cat. He'd brought her a gift, a present, a _this is for you when you return; I've left it where you'll find it_, and it made everything in him turn to lead.

"She's not coming back," Damian told the perplexed cat, his voice rough from disuse.

Saying it aloud had made it fact, so he'd adjusted himself to accept this hard truth. Damian ate, showered, shaved, and returned to patrolling that night.

He let the work consume him. It was easier to push himself into the things necessary of the Bat when his life and his individuality had been pared out of the equation. He understood his father better, and he hated that it took the loss of his best and brightest possession to bring him closer to the memory of Bruce Wayne. To become a better Batman, he had to be nothing but the Bat.

And without her, he was. Without her, he could patrol all night, brutally effective and covering more ground than ten normal men could. Without her, he was a better Bat.

Without her, it felt like meaningless rote and mechanical repetition.

Stephanie was staying with Drake. It didn't surprise him that she'd called him first, or that Drake had welcomed her with open arms. It was good that she was there, because he had no desire to go to Metropolis to confront her. If he did, he would be arguing with Drake and all of his spit-shine _good_ friends, and it would make a scene. Even if he went to talk to her civilly, he wouldn't be allowed to do so. They thought him a monster, so they'd force him to play the part.

He wondered if they thought he'd been keeping her in Gotham against her will, the Beauty to his Beast. He wondered if that meant he would be dealing with the superhero equivalent of pitchforks and torches someday. He knew that it wouldn't break _his_ curse. His secondhand contact with Stephanie was limited—-he only called Drake once, to confirm that she was okay, and the only one who'd come to confront him for his misdeeds was Impulse. Iris had been vibrating and screeching on a level beyond human understanding, but he'd picked up on enough:_she'samessandit'_.

It'd made him angry. Not at her, but at the kernels of truth there.

Yes, this was his fault. No, he could not make it right. Yes, she deserved better. She always had.

Damian had allowed her to scream at him, because arguing with her would do no good. But when Milagro had come to collect her speedster girlfriend, he hadn't been able to help letting some of that black, bitter spite seep out—-he'd called them both a name that'd earned him a punch from a giant green fist. They'd left, and he'd played his part as monster. The story would spread, and no one else would come to talk to him. They'd concentrate their energies on convincing Stephanie to stay away, because he was a bad man who said bad things.

And that was what he wanted.

But he did get one more visitor, weeks later. The members of his 'family' had visual-recognition access to the Batcave proper, but even if she hadn't had a standing invitation, Cassandra would have slipped in without his notice. She was masterful, one of the few that had had his respect since he'd been a child. He'd mooned over the idea of her, slick and experienced and wonderful, even though he'd ended up with a different Batgirl.

Cassandra didn't say anything in greeting. She was in civilian clothes, a simple black skirt and indigo blouse, and she was unarmed. He'd assumed that she'd come to talk—-though neither were masters of _that_field—-but then she'd been suddenly _there_, inside his guard. He had hardly seen her move; in one swift, painful crack, she punched him in the face hard enough to shatter bone. Damian's nose chugged blood, and his brain wrestled with pain and shock.

And then, Cassandra turned and left without a word.

"What the _fuck_ did you do that for?" Damian yelped, holding his bleeding nose. It was definitely broken.

Damian didn't know what the _hell_ had just happened, but he didn't like it.


	9. ALTERNATE END: Part 2

The years had been good to Beryl Hutchinson—-or at least as good as the years ever were to a long-term costumed vigilante. When Steph had first met her, they had been Batgirl and Squire, a former-Robin and Europe's basic equivalent to Robin. She'd known very little about the girl, the meeting having been all-business and in the name of the Bat (and also Justice), but the British spitfire had clicked with her in a way that was rare for them both. They'd kept in contact after their _hey, look, the space-time continuum has gone all timey-wimey_ adventure, mostly through brief emails and a few instances of their paths intersecting at the right place at the right time. They were cut from similar cloth, girls who'd grown up with little and gone through too much, but who'd ultimately found their calling doling out criminal punishment in thematic costumes. Beryl wore magic armor nowadays, the first Knightress in the line, but she was still her loud, explosively cheery self.

Steph wasn't sure who had told her about The Fight—-because she refused to believe that the relationship issues between Batman and Batwoman were interesting enough to hop over the pond all on their own—-but she felt oddly obligated to send them a thank you note. Beryl was what she needed, she decided as soon as the redheaded woman caught sight of her among the other passengers wandering around like lost children. The Knightress gave a loud whoop of excitement and waved at her enthusiastically, like the sign blaring CONSTANCE ABERTHINE in bright purple marker wasn't enough of a clue that she was there to pick her up.

Beryl was bright and obnoxious and commanding. She was everything that the normal Gothamite was not, and Steph _needed_ that. She tossed the sign aside and loped up to her, wrapping her in a hug that squeezed just shy of collapsing her lungs.

"Hullo, Steph! It's so good to see you!" Beryl crowed happily, pulling her up off her feet and swinging with her. It took sheer force of will to beat back her lingering airsickness. She had to swallow repeatedly to keep from hurling on her sneakers. That would have seriously affected Beryl's level of enthusiasm, and Steph wanted to ride the curve of her good cheer and pretend that this was a pleasure visit, and that everything was fine.

"You look great, B," Steph said, and meant it. Beryl had grown into herself, a powerful cut of a woman. Even without her armor on, her bearing screamed _warrior_—-or _you don't want to meet me in a dark alley, mate_, at least. She was tall and toned, her tanned arms chased with faint, pale trails of scar tissue. She'd kept her very red hair in a chin-length bob, but her left eyebrow and nose had been pierced since the last time she'd seen her.

"And you look like a smear in a gutter, ducks," she said, grinning. "But not every day can be a winning one, now can it? Take it from me—-a week or two here will make life in the States seem simple. You'll be too busy to dwell on any pointy-eared bastards."

Yeah, this was exactly what Steph needed.

* * *

><p>Beryl lived in a mess of an apartment that was more closet than apartment, and more warzone than mess. If Beryl herself was an entire army of loud woman warriors distilled into one body, her apartment was the home decor equivalent. Newspaper clippings and a few pieces of drying lingerie hung from a line that stretched from the kitchenette to the living room—-a grand total of about eight feet. Her bookshelf was made of stacked milk crates and cinder blocks, and her computer looked like it might actually be duct taped. Everything was everywhere and nothing made sense, but it still felt welcoming and homey.<p>

Steph didn't know where to set her things—-or where to sit, really, since the couch was covered in archaic weapons, a layer of cat hair, and the fat, dim cat that the hair belonged to. Beryl shooed the cat (Knickers, which was both a wonderful and terrible name for an overweight cat that had the IQ and disposition of an attractive paperweight) off the couch, moved the mace, and commanded her to drop her bag and make herself at home.

And it was a little bit like being at home. Not Wayne-home, but Mom-home. The house that she and her mother had shared had been a lot like this one, albeit a little bit more organized. Things were well-worn and well-loved, either hand-me-downs to begin with or items used until they fell apart, then taped together and used some more.

"It's not much," Beryl said, almost hesitantly. "But I don't need much, y'know? It's my own place, and that's what's important to me."

It was like she was looking at her home with fresh eyes and picking out all the imagined faults; Steph waved her off immediately.

"I totally do," she said, and gave her the brightest smile she could muster. "Having it be _yours_ means a lot. And it's a for-real flat. That's cool. Consider the American very impressed."

"A flat that's home to the one and only Knightress," she agreed, her hesitance warming into pride. "And the temporary headquarters of America's darling, the Batwoman. That's a winning two-fer if I ever did see one. I'd take you to the castle, but it's drafty. Marvelous to tour and to take tea in, but give me an apartment with a heater any old day. He'd like to see you." Beryl paused, then bubbled with laughter. "The, um, _Earl_of the castle, not the castle, that is."

Steph forgot that Beryl's former partner wasn't just an average joe, sometimes. The American Batman was a trust fund orphan in every incarnation, but Britain's Bat was of noble lineage. He had a castle and everything. It struck her as kind of odd that Beryl lived in a crappy studio apartment while her old friend and mentor had an entire castle for him and his (Texan!) butler, but she was no stranger to complicated situations.

"It'd be an honor. Do I have to curtsy? If I make a bad first impression, do I get exiled from Wordenshire? Inquiring minds, 'cause I'm _really good_ at bad first impressions."

"Ha! No, no. Cyril's a lamb. It's the first Thursday of the month, and I'm expected at the Time in a Bottle in London," Beryl explained, picking up pieces of very old armor. Knickers, who had resettled himself in the bowl of her helmet, gave a grumble of protest when she shooed him out of it. "Cyril wants you to come along. The local chapters of our crowd—-the capes and cowls, that is—-they gather at the Time in a Bottle to share a pint and a bit of camaraderie. It's a tradition stretching back to the sixteenth century, so I thought you might be interested."

"I'm here for the culture," Steph said, putting on her best face. "Culturize me, cap'n."

* * *

><p>The Time in a Bottle was the single most British thing that Steph had ever experienced, and that was including the back-alley tours Beryl had inflicted on her at high speed the first time she'd visited. At face value, the pub was quaint—-more of a converted inn than anything, feeling faintly like it'd been someone's home many, many years before. The Time in a Bottle was a place that could not possibly have existed in Gotham, for more reasons than she could list.<p>

First off, everyone was in costume. If she hadn't known better, she would have assumed that the pub was holding an early Halloween costume contest. First Thursday of the month was just for _their_ crowd, and what a crowd it was. There were a ton of uniforms that she recognized, but they were tipped slightly—-the European versions of heroes that'd originated on American soil. She'd done a neck-wrenching double-take when she'd passed a framed picture on the wall that looked scarily like the Joker, if he'd put on fifty pounds and fifty years. The plaque underneath the picture read, "Jarvis Poker: the Funniest Among Us," paired with his day of birth and his death.

That was the second thing that'd floored Steph: costumed heroes and known villains mingled freely and without conflict. She tried to imagine what this would look like in Gotham—-Batman and Joker enjoying frosty brews and shooting the shit, toasting their hero/villain bond with PBRs and civil discussion of politics.

It wouldn't happen. It just wouldn't happen, even if a bar blessed by Merlin existed in America. The pub had a tiny statue that prevented any use of powers, weapons, or aggressive force. But, Steph felt, if all the criminals and vigilantes of Gotham were piled into a pub that forbade physical fighting with truce magic, one of two things would happen. Either they would try to find a way around it, using the place as a trap, or they wouldn't go there at all. They had no interest in meeting in gray zones, no desire to see each other as anything but enemies or obstacles.

So, it was surreal. Completely and utterly surreal. When Beryl had told her to suit up to go meet Cyril, she hadn't expected anyone else to know who she was. But as soon as Batwoman and the Knightress had walked in the door, people flocked. Everyone wanted to shake her hand, to tell her what a dear she was, to ask how long she'd be staying and if she'd be interested in seeing the particular sights they watched over. It was a little bit overwhelming, and Beryl—-thankfully—-picked up on that. She shooed away the colorful bunch of spandex-clad admirers, telling them that they were chatty nags, and to give her some breathing room. Using her size to cut a path through the throng, she steered her toward a back corner table.

"Sorry about that," Beryl said, her smile broad beneath her armored visor. "I let slip to the regulars that I'd be entertaining a Bat, and you've got a bit of a following here."

"Holy crap," Steph said with feeling, rearranging her cape as she took a seat. NOMEX wasn't comfortable to sit on when it was all bunched up. "Pretty sure they like me more here than in my own town. I don't think I could be more welcomed."

"Wouldn't a pint or two make you feel properly welcomed?" Cyril asked, sliding into the booth next to Beryl. He looked weirdly out of place in a light wool blazer and slacks, but he didn't have a masked identity anymore.

"Particularly if it's a pint bought by Lord Cyril Sheldrake, Earl of Wordenshire, eh?"

"As awesome as a drink purchased by nobility would be, I'm gonna pass," Steph said. Her stomach turned over unpleasantly at the mere thought.

"Not on my account, I hope," said Cyril, folding his big hands together neatly on the table. "It wouldn't bother me. I've been sober for fifteen years, now."

Steph suffered a hot, brief flash of embarrassment. She hadn't known that Cyril was a recovering alcoholic. It wasn't the type of thing that came up easily in conversation, and even as friendly as she'd been with Beryl, they hadn't delved into the nitty-gritty details of their personal lives. Capes and cowls were notoriously close-mouthed about their secret identities, even to allies. Keeping some things safe was what kept some of them alive to fight another day. It was just a reality of their dual lives.

"Oh, no, no," Steph said, waving her hands. "I don't think my stomach could handle any booze right now. I spent half the flight over tossing my cookies." She paused for a beat. "Biscuits. Is that even a saying here?_Anyway,_ I was puking my guts out, 'cause I'm apparently the only Bat that can't fly."

Beryl reached across the table and patted her hand.

"You should've said something. They serve a nice ginger ale here. How's about I get us a round? I haven't got much of a taste for alcohol, anyhow." Beryl jerked a thumb at Cyril with a cheeky grin. "Been hanging around this bloody pain in the A for too many years."

"And you only complain when we've got company," he groused, though the corners of his eyes crinkled with mirth. "Go fetch the drinks, you. Tell George to put it on my tab."

"Right, right," Beryl said, an eye-roll in her voice. "I live to serve, m'lord."

"No earl could hope for a better knight," he said warmly. Beryl disappeared into the rainbow of costumes, the pointed metal ears of her helmet bobbing above the crowd.

"She's a hell of a knight, too," Steph said, eying Cyril thoughtfully. He was just edging toward his mid-forties, his age only belied by the creases in his kind, calm face, and the fingers of gray working away from his temples. He was in fine physical condition, still able to hold his own in any fight, if he chose to. He didn't, though. He'd passed on his mantle, his armor, by choice.

"She wears it well," he agreed, smiling absently. It brought out dimples that cut a good ten years off him. "She, erm. Was ready for it years ago, I suppose, but I wanted to be certain before I passed the torch. She couldn't stay my Squire forever, and she's always had the heart for it. Hutchinsons are known to have lion hearts, and my knight's the bravest of the breed."

"Soon as I get my ginger ale, I'm toasting to that," she said, her eyes still wandering around the pub. Soaking it all in was a process. It might as well have been full of lions and lambs grooming each other, for the way the 'good' and the 'bad' carried on. "Do you miss it? The punching and the kicking and the crimefighting, I mean."

Cyril contemplated that for a long minute, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles.

"Yes and no," he said. "It's a curious affliction, this need to take to the streets. I was the Squire before her, so I've been in this business for most of my life. I was the Squire 'cos my father needed me, then the Knight because I needed _it_. It filled an emptiness, taking up his armor after he died. She," and those calm, deep brown eyes of his rested on Beryl, who was chatting merrily with the bartender. "Became my Squire 'cos I needed her. Drink nearly ruined me—-the fight wasn't enough to keep the emptiness at bay. I lost the castle, lost my head—-damn near lost it all. The Hutchinsons took me in, cleaned me up, and set me back on my feet. Bringing order to the streets helped sort me out on the inside, so I needed to be the Knight."

Cyril didn't look away from her.

"Now, I don't need that. She does. She fights for me, and she does it admirably. I miss it, and I worry that she gets in over her head at times, but I don't regret making her my Knight. Seemed like the natural progression of things, really."

Steph hummed thoughtfully, chin in her hand.

"The Bats could learn a thing or two from you," she murmured, then sighed. "They all hold onto their titles with white knuckles until they _have_to give 'em up, or they pretend that they're going to live forever."

Or the made sure that they _would_ live forever. But that wasn't a thought that Steph could share. She stamped it down before it could ruin her mood.

"Yes, well," Cyril twirled one wrist airily, evasive. "Things are, erm. Different in the colonies, as I'm sure you're well aware."

"You don't even know," Stephanie said with a laugh. "Seriously. Nooooo idea."

"And I'm back with drinks and merriment," Beryl said, expertly juggling three mugs. She slid back into the booth, passing out drinks. "What'd I miss? Been talking about me? I'll be disappointed if you weren't, y'know."

"We've been brainstorming stories and slander to circulate," she smirked over the top of her mug. It was the gingeriest ginger ale that she'd ever had, but the bite was unexpectedly nice. "Gotta keep the rumor mill going."

"You damned Yank," she laughed. "And I opened my heart and home to you, too."

"And I'm grateful for that," Steph said, with all the feeling she could muster. Offering to put her up for as long as she needed was no small thing, but Beryl wasn't halfway about anything. She didn't put limits on anything, so she knew if she ended up crashing on her couch for ten years, she'd be perfectly happy with the arrangement. Beryl and Cyril were _good_ people. "Still working through my culturization shock, but I'm glad I'm here."

"It's, ah, odd for you, I imagine," Cyril said, big hands wrapped around his stein. "The speed here's a bit different, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it's kind of crazy," she agreed, that framed picture of the not-Joker catching her eye again. "There's a lot of similarities, but the heroes and the villains are more…"

"Moderate?" Beryl prompted, following her gaze. The portrait brought out faint creases of displeasure at the corners of her mouth. "The crowd runs more on the golden mean here. That's not to say our villains aren't bad people, but they ain't monsters. I've never figured out if Gotham makes 'em that way, or if it's simply something in the water. We had a Joker, y'know—-Jarvis Poker, British Joker."

"A good man," Cyril murmured, then drank to it.

"You wouldn't call our Joker a good man," Steph said, the name alone calling up fractured bits of what the Joker _was_: blood and shrieking laughter, crowbars and dead kittens drowned in marzipan, children laughing themselves to death. "I mean, most people wouldn't even call him a man. He's a thing. A bad, awful, _why can't you just stay down and-or in jail_ thing."

"Oh, I know," she said, nodding briefly. "But Brits don't have the same sense of humor. See, our Joker ripped his style 'cos he thought it was inspiring, but his jokes were actually funny. He was a hero in his own right, though he didn't want that spread around."

"Is that…I dunno, common around here?" Steph asked, surveying the crowd with new interest.

"Fairly. We've had heroes of our own, but you Yanks have done it with a certain flair. Lotsa people have taken up similar names, inspired by what they've seen from afar. I knew a Shrike once, too. Heard that yours is a foul man, but ours was." Beryl stopped, taking a quick drink—-like she had to wash a bad taste out of her mouth. "He was a good boy, too. The only thing that made him a recovering villain was the fact that he signed up for a villainy weblisting 'cos he didn't know where else to start in the business. Joker killed him. Yours, not ours. He killed ours, too."

Steph seriously regarded the bubbles in her soda, willing her stomach to calm down again. Sometimes, she wondered exactly how many lives the Arkham lot had torn apart with graceless fingers—-how much they'd ruined, if that was something that could even be tallied up. The next line of thought was the one where she—-and all the other people in her 'clan'—-had to stop: would this particular life be different, or better, if we'd taken the Joker out of the picture decades ago?

It was the question that split Jason from Bruce. It defined their methodology. Though she followed Bruce's laws still, it wasn't a question that Steph had ever fully answered for herself. When she brought herself up short, it wasn't always her own instincts she was following.

"Why?" she heard herself ask. "Why would people here want to be_anything_ like what we have in Gotham?"

Beryl and Cyril exchanged a look between them; it was a glance that held an entire conversation and ended in Cyril nodding slightly.

"At first glance, you'd think it's 'cos you Americans beat us to the naming game," Cyril said, his tone the slow, even cadence of a storyteller. "And I'd wondered that myself, when I was a much younger man. My father, Lord Percival Sheldrake, was the first Squire—-but to the Shining Knight, who is a different hero altogether. The Shining Knight title goes back to the days of Arthur, so you could say he's uniquely ours. When my father grew into himself and struck out on his own, he decided against following tradition. This pointy-eared gentleman across the pond inspired him, so he married his love of England's history with everything that the Batman stood for: championing the weak, upholding law and order, never using guns, and never killing. He's not the only one, either—-years before Mr. Wayne fully funded Batman Incorporated, Batmen were popping up globally. What his actions said carried further than his voice ever could. That is how the Knight, the British Batman, was born."

"But it's more than that," Beryl cut in when Cyril paused for thought. "He—-the Batman, that is—-is bigger than just what he did, or how he did it. He's a hero."

"We're all heroes," Steph said, not quite understanding where the Knightress was going with that.

"Erm, yes, in a _broad sense_, but," Cyril gestured around them, at the Time in a Bottle as a whole. "We've got an interesting view of things, here. America is a young country, in the grand scheme of things. Britain is an archaeological site of sorts: the various peoples and conquerors have left layer after layer atop each other, which informs both our culture and our imaginations. If you start digging, you'll find modern England and the whole chain of kings and queens that led us here, then the Norman conquest, then the Anglo-Saxons, then the Roman empire's fingertips, then the prehistoric peoples, then all the immortal things that were here before mankind was even thought of. It's a lumpy layer cake, and sometimes things from the bottom poke up through. Nothing is ever fully erased, so we have this very rich, very old history to pull our stories from. There's no finer example of it than _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, I think. Fairies and Romanized Greeks played and penned by Brits. America doesn't have this, not to such a degree."

"You're too young for it, and your native stories aren't held up with the same veneration," Beryl added. "Those old so-called magics exist, but they're not as strong in the consciousness. So, being _Americans_, you've gone and made your own heroes."

"There's a difference between heroes like, erm," Cyril looked around for a victim. "Rush Hours one through three, and King Arthur. You've probably never heard of the Rush Hours, but everyone can name at least three or four knights of the Round Table. Our true heroes are hundreds of years old, because our memory for history goes back far further than even that. But you, you marvelous mad Yanks, you're still writing your stories. Your King Arthurs and Lady Guineveres are still alive, and the world reacts to them. The Batman and his knights will live forever." He drank his ginger ale, smiling. "You can mark my words on that one. Children will be telling your tales for many, many years."

Stephanie had never thought about it in those terms. Why would she have? The cape and the cowl had always had meaning, the Bat Symbol inciting a visceral reaction in the people of Gotham, but her view of what it all meant was super-nearsighted. Being a Bat had felt like being a part of something big, but this was huge and humbling—-and it felt _right._When Bruce had started putting together the Batman Inc network, he hadn't had to _make_ heroes in his own image. They'd been there already, peppered around the globe and fighting for what made Batman _Batman_without ever having been in his presence. In a weird way, the candle vow could have been considered some kind of knighting, too.

She must have been staring blankly as her brain tried to process this—-and all the meaning attached to it—-because Cyril chuckled warmly.

"Bit of an eye-opener, eh?"

"Yeah, it. I. The fanboy welcome makes more sense now," she said.

"What you do is magnificent," Beryl said, reaching over and squeezing both her hands. "And that's why you'll always be welcome in my home, Batwoman. Even if you're a bloody gossip."

Later that night, curled up on the squeaky pull-out spare bed in Beryl's apartment, Steph kept herself awake trying to commit everything that had been said to memory. She wished that Damian had been able to hear it from the Knight and Knightress themselves. Since he was thousands of miles and several bad decisions removed, she made herself remember it all.

As the Batman, he _was_ that hero. If he gave her the chance, she'd convince him of it.

* * *

><p>Patrolling with the Knightress reminded her of the goodl ol' days. Not the good ol' days with Damian—-the <em>old<em> good ol' days, when she'd worn a hand-sewn purple cape and done everything at her own speed. In those ol' days, she'd been as self-made as her costume, scooting around on an ancient Kawasaki she'd conned a former boyfriend into fixing up for her. She hadn't had real patterns or routines, just zooming around the dark streets armed only with enthusiasm and the idea that she was doing The Right Thing, beating down everything that got in her way.

With Beryl, it was like that. There was a freedom to it, because they were constantly roaming to new places. Damian had been a stickler about following crime patterns and planning ahead, but the Knightress was more reactionary. Nothing much happened in Wordenshire, so she went wherever she was needed. She rode Knight's old motorcycle, the horse-headed Anastasia, and Steph followed on the Squire's retired "steed".

The Knightress was the Bat of England, which meant she covered a lot more ground than Batwoman, the Bat of Gotham, was used to. The change was good, though; good for her head, good for her heart, and ostensibly good for her health.

Worden was a tiny town, full of family-owned shops that'd stood for hundreds of years. The air was clean and fresh, and she couldn't have found a friendlier bunch of civilians. Everyone was on first name basis with everyone else, and the identities of the line of Knights of Wordenshire was the single worst-kept secret in all of England. The grapevine was a surprisingly good source of information, and nobody ever had to be shaken down for what they knew. News was floated to Beryl through the sweet old man who owned the convenience store where Beryl picked up Cyril's favorite magazines—-he actively kept 'those masked hooligans' out of Worden by yelling them out of his shop and giving them directions to London, where they'd have an easier time rabble-rousing—-and from the milkman every morning—-who was an honest to God milkman who delivered honest to God milk, but who was also a vigilante (named The Milkman)—-and from the sharp-eared woman who ran the bakery—-who would always tell Beryl to pass the info along to that dashing Knightress friend of hers, then give her a wink.

The people of Worden were very aware of who watched over them, and they were proud of her. Beryl and Cyril's secret identities were as unsecretive as secret identities got, but there was this implied _trust_, this_respect_, that kept them safe from the world outside of their rural village. Steph figured that most of the people who saw her with Beryl as her stay went from 'days' to 'weeks' had puzzled out who Batwoman was by proxy. It should have bothered her—-and if Damian had known, he would've had eighteen kinds of fits—-but it seemed like such a non-issue in Worden. The locals treated her like she'd been one of theirs since childhood, more of a part of the community than a visitor whose stay was looking more and more permanent daily.

All of that open air and kindness should have been therapeutic. And mentally, it was. Steph had space to think, to analyze her life in Gotham without the claustrophobic skyscrapers boxing her in. But she couldn't shake her problems, and the weight of what she'd left behind in Gotham wore her down. In the two months since she'd packed up and pushed off, she'd lost almost ten pounds. The Stress About What Damian Might Be Doing to Himself Diet was a killer, and all she had to do to slim down was hug the toilet until she wondered what she'd done to piss off God, anyway.

This didn't go unnoticed by Beryl—-or any of the graying women who frequented the bakery or the deli where they ate most of their meals. It'd been a mixed blessing to learn that Beryl was as terrible at cooking as Steph was, because while solidarity was great, they had to eat. The bakery and deli were warm and friendly enough that the staff might as well have been family, so whenever Steph had to hurriedly excuse herself and make a beeline for the loo, she returned to worried clucking and an array of home remedies to ease stress.

She tried to push it all from her mind—-to cut herself off. She tried, because she knew that for her sake—-as well as Damian's—-she _had_ to. Trying didn't earn her gold stars in the real world, though, and she couldn't control her wandering thoughts. Little things reminded her of him, but those prompts weren't anywhere as bad as the dreams.

More often than not, she dreamt of him. That scared her, more than she wanted to admit even to herself. Ever since her teens, her nightmares had been predictable: sharp edges and needles, Black Mask and the tremor in Bruce's voice when he'd promised that she'd really been_something._ Now, her dreams were fresh and full of dark avenues she'd never explored before. There was a new tableau of horror waiting for her at every dead end.

Sometimes, they'd be good dreams. She'd dream about his hands, how his palm felt when it curved to follow the arch of her hip. The exact shapes of the calluses on his fingertips, the edge of his nails when they bit skin. His wide knuckles, and the multicolored pattern their fingers made when laced together. She'd dream about his eyes, how they warmed and cooled like liquid with his moods. Always blue, always clear, but they could be warm depths or ice. She dreamt about him in pieces, fragments and details she'd memorized over the years.

In the good dreams, she never saw all of him, and sometimes his presence was nothing but that familiar hand on her hip and his warm breath on the back of her neck as he slept—-implications of the rest of him. When she woke up in the lumpy hide-a-bed in Beryl's flat, alone and three thousand miles away from all the places she'd called home, she usually curled up on her side and tried not to cry. Even if she succeeded, suppressing it made her sick.

Most of the time, they were nightmares shot through with memories. She'd dream about all the ways she'd seen him die: shot in the head, shot in the heart, strangled, snapped, and burned. She'd dream about all the wrong, broken angles his body had taken. The exact shapes of the puddles of blood around him when he bled out, how the chugging flow from the bullet wounds would slow and stop with his heartbeat.

The nightmares were never content with working with real life material, the things she'd seen and could never forget, so sometimes it was Black Mask holding the knife, palming the gun, or holding his body. Sometimes, it was her. And nightmares being nightmares, he never opened his eyes again, never healed and got back up with a sneer.

Steph woke up shaking every time, and it was a race to get untangled from her bedding and make it to the sink or toilet before she started heaving. That nausea was a lasting one, because she saw ghastly afterimages whenever she closed her eyes. She knew that she couldn't keep losing sleep and weight at the rate that she was, but what was she supposed to do? She couldn't go back. She couldn't change things. Her hands were tied, and the only person she could beat up over it was her own body.

Beryl noticed—-_had_ to have noticed; throwing up had become as much a part of Steph's morning routine as brushing her teeth—-but she said nothing. She was brash and bold, but even she knew better than to stomp through certain delicate situations. So, she tried to distract her with patrolling at night and a whole host of activities during the day. Beryl was a great hostess and a better friend, so Steph felt guilty for letting her internal turmoil leak out at all. The more she repressed and stuffed it all down, the sicker she got.

By the sixth week of her extended stay, Beryl was kicking out all the stops when it came to constructive distractions. Nobody knew they lay of the land like the Knightress did, and nobody had as many friends in unexpected places. One warm, damp night in mid-July, she announced that they would be taking the night off and painting the town red in a different way. Beryl locked her in the bathroom and promised that she'd keep her alive with crackers poked under the door until she agreed to hang up the cape for the night and go out to meet people. Steph hadn't had any choice but to sigh and say yes.

She wondered when she'd become the un-fun one. Not too long ago, she was Steph Brown: _International Woman of Fun-Having._ She would've punched a whole line of criminals in the face for the chance to go to a punk rock show. It wasn't age that'd calmed her down, it was exhaustion and inescapable misery. She'd get over it—-everyone from the sweet Worden housewives to Beryl to Kara to Cass and back again had promised that—-but Steph was stubborn, even when she didn't want to be. She hadn't let go of Damian. Not yet.

But soaking up some reality wouldn't hurt in the meantime, so she threw on jeans and a t-shirt—-she'd pondered long and hard over whether it would be more appropriate to wear her best shirt, or her rattiest—-and braced herself for Beryl's most dogged attempt at making her enjoy herself.

And it worked. Kind of.

Beryl's favorite club was a hole in the wall that didn't warrant a sign, much less a blurb on travel websites. It was one of those places where you had to know someone who knew someone to know it existed, and then you had to know someone who _really_ knew someone in order to get in. It was dirty, lit by neon and a motley assortment of lights that illuminated the curlicues of cigarette smoke snaking toward the ceiling. The floor was packed and rowdy enough that only the strung out, the smashed, the die-hard, the jaded, and the foolhardy would willingly risk going out into it, and at the moment Steph wasn't any of the above. She couldn't hear her own thoughts around the shrill, breakneck speed of the guitar riffs and the thumping of the the bass, but that was what she wanted. No booze, nothing to make her emotional and maudlin—-just something loud enough to jar her out of the sick loop she'd fallen into.

"_Love adventure death and glory; The short goodbye the whispered story,"_ the frontman yowling on stage had his thin shoulders bunched up near his ears, his entire body wrapped protectively around the microphone. He sang-screamed in rapid-fire. _"One last glance at the chameleon dance, and into the dark across the park. I ain't no mark for the venus of the hardsell! SAY IT!"_ He pulled the mic away, shouting so hard that the muscles in his long neck stood out in hard lines and spittle sprayed out of his mouth. The crowd knew the song—-loved the song, by the way they were writhing in the choppy spaces between each word—-so they shrieked with him, _"I AIN'T NO MARK FOR THE VENUS OF THE HARDSELL!"_ "An oldie but goodie," Beryl shouted in her ear. She had to fight to be heard over the music, even with a hand on her shoulder and leaning in close. "Mucous Membrane! They were just brilliant, back in the day!"

"_Saints and sinners raw beginners; Lipstick traces and TV dinners!"_

"Punk rock songs have lyrics?" Steph shouted back, her grin wide. Beryl laughed hard, slapping her shoulder.

"_Empty graves and shallow heads; Shallow smiles and empty beds!"_

"Don't let anyone hear you say that!" She said, the whirling lights making her smile almost garish. "This lot'll be out for your blood!"

"_Betta get a room without a view; Sail out of sight of land!"_

Steph had listened to her fair share of punk rock—-she was kind of a punk at heart, in her own way. When she'd been thirteen and at her angriest, she'd thrived on the slamming regurgitation of lyrics and chords. It had been less about the lyrics and more about the _feel_—-venting, the toxic release of everything kept pent up by God, propriety, and The Man. Her thirteen-year-old self's version of The Man had had hands large enough to swallow her up and choke out all of her _no_s, his voice a deceptively gentle murmur that'd been an alibi: _nothing's wrong, we're fine, we were just talking about your gymnastics, weren't we? You were just showing me your walk-overs. I was only helping. Nothing's wrong._

Punk rock had given her an outlet to scream it all out under the guise of appreciating music. To her, that was what punk rock music _was._

"_Momma won't like it but you should—-Travel with a rough-neck crew!"_

She was actively listening for the lyrics this time, though. They were surprisingly good. Steph squinted out across the mosh pit, eyes and ears sharp. The singer stomped and swung his long, skinny limbs, and the crowd followed, fists punching the air in violent ecstasy.

"_Listen out for all that's said!"_

That's when she saw him. She recognized him immediately—-would have known him anywhere, even if she'd only caught a brief glimpse of him.

Damian didn't blend well when he wasn't wearing the suit that made him the Batman, or the suit that made him the son of billionaire Bruce Wayne. There was something about him that stood out, that was so singular that it denied him any place where he completely fit in. She'd always thought that maybe that was due to Gotham being Gotham, but it turned out to be more of Damian just being Damian.

He was wearing loose black slacks and a green shirt, hands in his pockets. Unsurprisingly, he was looking at her.

He'd followed her all the way to England. She wasn't sure if that was something that made her happy or not, but the relief of just _seeing_ him again swelled up before she could crush it.

"_Just worry when the hounds ain't fed! Gotta worry when the hounds ain't fed!"_

"Have to pee," Steph quickly told Beryl, launching herself into the mess of bodies on the floor before she could offer to go with her. As she worked her way toward him—-leading with her elbows, because she figured that regulars at punk rock shows expected to come home with bruises or worse—-she tried to decide if she wanted to punch him for_stalking_ her when she'd made it abundantly clear that she didn't want to be around him, or if she wanted to grab onto him and not let go for at least five minutes.

She hadn't come to a decision by the time she resurfaced where she'd seen him, but it didn't matter. He wasn't there. She'd imagined it. She'd missed him so much, she'd imagined he'd go all the way to England just to see her.

Steph was just gearing up for some real self-disgust when a hand closed around her wrist. And she knew that hand, knew whose it was without even having to turn around.

Damian smirked. She was too busy wrestling with her emotions to smack it off his face.

"You've missed me," he said. Not a question, not even _I missed you_, which would have been a much better opener.

"Maybe," she said, because she couldn't say no.

"C'mon," he said, and jerked his chin toward the half-lit exit sign. Only the first two letters glowed: _EX_. How stupidly appropriate.

Again, it wasn't a question, and she was too engrossed in not-feeling/being overwhelmed by feelings/hating how much she missed him to put up a fight when he led her through the door by her wrist.

The London night was warm, the air slightly muggy from the earlier rain. He pinned up against her; her back scraped the brick wall and her hands immediately went to his face, making him stoop to kiss her.

She could sort out her feelings later, she rationalized. She'd be able to think more clearly if she got this out of her system, she decided. She wanted him to know she still loved him, and she wanted that to be reason enough for him to love himself, too.

He'd come after her. That meant something, didn't it? That meant everything.

But Damian's kiss felt _wrong_. He usually took his time, starting out as a highly self-controlled tease, and she had to take the initiative to make it deeper, tongue and the pressure of teeth. This time, he was the one doing all the pushing, and she wasn't sure she liked it. Not with how long they'd been separated, and how they'd said goodbye. This wasn't the hello that she'd expected or wanted.

Steph pushed back, not strong enough to shove him off but getting enough room to breathe.

"Not so fast, buster," she said, frowning.

"Is this not what you sought tonight, my love?" Damian asked, his eyes frigid.

"No," Steph said, her voice gaining strength and confidence even as something in her shriveled up from the ice in his stare. "Because the real Damian wouldn't call me 'my love'. He finds it demeaning. You should've studied harder before impersonating him, _asshole."_

"Was it the kiss that showed me a fraud?" He laughed—-but it wasn't really a laugh. It was a cackle, bubbling up black and hysterical and inhuman.

Steph shook, but not from fear. No, she was way, way too furious to be scared of whoever or whatever was wearing Damian's skin.

Nobody played with her emotions like that.

"Let. Me. Go," she growled, her voice low and dangerous. Each word held a separate threat, and she didn't care _what_ he was—-she'd make good on them.

"But pet, you all but cried for me to come," he purred, and his smirk was too wide and too oily to be Damian's. He traced the line of her clavicle with his thumb, and she grabbed his wrist and squeezed with everything in her. He didn't even blink.

"I couldn't tell which joke would be the best," he continued, unfazed. "To use this face, or the one in your nest."

"_Oy!_ You let her be!"

Steph had never been happier to hear Beryl's booming voice. She had her hands on her hips, shoulders squared.

"And so the shining knight arrives," the not-Damian said with a put-upon sigh. "Knightress: nagging, noxious, needling Knightress."

"Listen here, ya tosser," she said raising one foot. The bottom of her laced-up combat boots glittered with studs. "I've got a pair of hobnailed boots with your name on them, goblin. You and I both know what cold iron does to your kind, so you best shove off before I make you taste leather."

"Many paint me with words fouler than these," he said, but took a step back. Steph's skin crawled where his fingers still gripped her arm. "You ruin all of the Goodfellow's fun."

"She's a visitor, and quite off the menu for tonight, fun or no fun," Beryl said darkly, walking closer. Each step she took was heavy; he flinched reflexively.

"T'was jest, Knightress, you have my solemn word," he said quickly, finally letting go. "Just one Robin greeting another bird."

"Right, right, like you've never maimed for the sake of maiming before, you militant, ugly imp. Go on, find your jollies somewhere else. Your so-called magic doesn't impress me much."

He was looking at Beryl, so Steph took the opening. She swung hard, punching him square in the jaw. He—-it?—-hissed, and sort of _melted._He shrank, coarse brown hair sprouting all over his body. Blue eyes turned into bulbous red ones, his pupils stretching into feline slits. His mouth held more vicious, needle-sharp teeth than any mouth should be able to fit inside it. With a displacement of air that sucked the air out of her lungs, he disappeared.

"Did I just punch a fairy?" Steph gasped, her heart jackhammering in her ears. Beryl steadied her with one strong hand, nodding. She seemed kind of stunned herself. "And I mean a fairy-fairy."

"More than that. You just took a swing at Robin Goodfellow himself. _The_Puck."

"Is that bad?"

She laughed suddenly and helplessly, wiping tears from the corner of her eyes. "Just funny, really. I don't think a mortal's gone through with the desire to beat his face in for a good couple of centuries. I can't wait to tell Cyril about this. You're mad, Steph. Mad, but wonderful."

Mad, but wonderful. It felt like a good enough assessment of her Stephcialities.

* * *

><p>Steph woke up the next morning to the smells of breakfast—-coffee, eggs, bacon, and toast—-and Beryl yelling "Come and get it while it's still hot, fairy-slayer!".<p>

The greasy bacon and eggs sounded good right up until Steph rolled out of bed and walked into the kitchen; her stomach turned hard, soured, and she lost what little appetite she'd had. She managed to not double over the sink, but only just. This stress would be the death of her. Probably literally, at this rate.

"Morning!" Beryl said, moving the pan off the burner and giving her a one-armed hug. "Sleep well? I hope you did, after the night we had. I swear I won't try pushing you out to socialize anymore. You can only piss off so many immortals before it comes back to bite you."

"I've punched a fairy, a familiar, a witch-boy, and a pilgrim from Limbo Town," Steph said with a yawn, hugging her back. "Odds aren't in my favor, but what else is new?"

"Yeah. About that. I've got something for you."

That's when Beryl brought out the rest of the groceries: a bottle of off-brand sports drink and three pregnancy tests.

"Are you kidding me?" Steph demanded, her voice weirdly high. Her cheeks burned. Sure, she'd been moody and sick, but _pregnant?_ Wasn't that jumping to conclusions? That was leaping wildly over a canyon of common sense and into conclusions.

"It's just—-" Beryl sighed, frustrated. She put the boxes on the table between them. "Something Puck said last night got under my skin. Tricksters lie when it pleases them, but he didn't have much of a reason to. He was leading you on 'cos of your old name. Names and wordplay fascinate his kind." She rubbed her eyes with the balled-up heel of her hand. She didn't look like she'd gotten much sleep. "When I found you, he said that he couldn't decide if he should prank you by wearing a glamour of Damian's face, or if he should've waited until you'd 'nested' to have his fun."

"Birds build nests," Steph said lamely. "And robins are birds. Stunning detective work."

"That's just it. _Why_ do birds build nests?" She waited for her to supply an answer, but Steph's voice had died in her throat. "To lay eggs in 'em. They build 'em for their babies. And see, fairies love babies. Sometimes, they take pretty, charming human babies and replace them with fae—-changelings, they call 'em."

"So he was saying that he was thinking of waiting until I'd—-I'd had a baby, then take it from me?"

The thought hit her at her deepest, where she kept old feelings she'd never been able to sort out. The loss of her baby had never gone away. It'd just been buried, because rationality said that she'd made the right decision.

"Fairies have a terrible sense of humor," Beryl said, biting her lip. "And he might have been messing with your head just by planting the seed of that idea, y'know?"

"Yeah," she said with a laugh that didn't sound anywhere near the realm of _right._

"So, I say you check. It's the simplest ailment to check off the list," she said gently, like the likelihood of her suspicions having any grounding at all was low. "Just piss on the sticks and be done with it, yeah? I'm half convinced that you're making yourself sick with nerves alone. I know plenty of women who've worked themselves up like that."

Steph inspected the boxes like they were bug poison, reading all the tiny text on the sides for warnings and instructions and whatever calming niceties they had printed about their accuracy.

"You're right," she said, pushing away the plain toast she'd been nibbling on. "I mean, we used protection every time. Hell, we doubled up on it, usually. We went without a condom _once_."

"Right," Beryl said with a firm nod, and started dishing up her plate. Steph retreated into the bathroom before the slippery-greasy smell of it coated the back of her throat and got to her.

Once in there, she took her time. She breathed. She relaxed. There was no way she'd be able to pee on command if she was bunched into a nervous knot of frantic _what if what if what ifs_ and visions of babies replaced by monsters. This would tell her that she was being silly; ha ha, Puck had gotten one over on her and the joke was totally on her. This would tell her that even entertaining the idea was indulging in her biological clock's ticking, her loneliness, and that selfish, stupid thought that maybe Damian had left her with something that she could keep and protect, no matter what happened to him.

She took the boxes apart systematically, carefully, reading and re-reading the directions one more time. Open stick, pee on stick, wait for results.

This was not rocket science. She could do this.

Steph poured herself a glass of water with shaking hands while she waited for the first test to develop.

It didn't take as long as she'd predicted for the blue line to appear.

Water sloshed over the side, a quivering maelstrom in a cup, and she ended up getting more on her shirt than in her mouth. She picked at the front of her wet nightshirt, swearing under her breath. Beryl was going to start wondering what was taking her so long, and she honestly did not put it past her to kick down the door if she wouldn't answer. She had to—-had to think. Had to get herself together.

A part of her had known, deep down, that the test was going to be positive. She'd wondered, because she'd been through this whole mess before. She tried to rationalize it away—-her periods had never been super regular—-but a part of her had known.

And she'd wanted it. She'd wanted it so bad that it was frightening. It was the kind of desire that consumed, so she'd hoped that drowning it out with reason would make it go away before it could dig its claws into her. It was an old wish, a deep one, and one that she'd mostly given up on. Unfortunately, her gut feeling had turned out to be reality, so she had a little plastic stick with a blue positive line and a growing sensation of vertigo.

_Think, Steph. Don't panic. Think. This is what you wanted, isn't it? You wanted to get pregnant again. You wanted a baby. Maybe not right now, but you wanted this. You could do worse than a Wayne baby, right?_

Bile rose in the back of her throat, hot and bitter. A Wayne baby. Pregnant with a Wayne baby. Did that count as Brown Luck?

Her wet shirt was already getting cold and uncomfortable. She pulled up the hem of it, lip sucked between her teeth, and looked at herself. Steph still had scars that had yet to fade and heal. The faint slice of her c-section scar was old and faint. It'd been a long time, but here she was again.

She spread her shaking hands hand flat over her belly, closing her eyes.

"Stephanie?" Beryl's pounding on the door made her jump reflexively and knock over her water. Christ, she was a _mess._ "You fall in?"

It took her a couple of seconds to find her voice again. It was small, too small for her usual cheerful exuberance.

"One sec!"

The second and third test had developed and they all bore the same cheerfully positive results. One was a blue line, one was a plus, one just said _positive,_ clear as day. Steph wrapped up the tests and threw them in the trash can. She washed her hands, then washed her face with cold water. She wasn't sure when she'd started crying, but she had. Her face felt too hot as she dried it.

"I'm fine," she said. Steph opened the door, hanging up the towel. She mopped up the spilled water and tidied the bathroom counter like she didn't know what to do with herself, with her hands. "I'm fine."

The look on Beryl's face said, very clearly, that she could tell that she was anything but fine.

"Positive, innit?" She asked, brow split with a worry line.

"I'm—-"

She hesitated. Actually saying it aloud felt like jinxing it, like inviting in a boogeyman just by acknowledging its reality. Maybe it'd be safer just to ignore it, pretend that it wasn't there so that no one else could know and target her because of it. Steph felt wobbly, like her limbs were noodles and her joints were made of jelly. When Beryl manhandled her into a half-hug, she let her.

"I'm pregnant." The words were too strong. "Probably pregnant. _Most likely_ pregnant. Three tests are a good indication, even if they're fallible." She laughed, thin and shaky. "Brown Luck strikes again."

"It's early yet," Beryl said, her tone carefully cautious. "If you can't have it, y'know you—-"

"No!" Steph said sharply—-so sharply, it edged on hysterics. She made herself calm down, made herself _breathe._ Knightress didn't know the full story, so getting all worked up would mean that she'd have to get into it. And Steph really, really didn't want to get into it. She didn't want to have to start with her _once upon a time, when I was a teenager and only a little bit more reckless than I am now, I made a mistake. In retrospect, it might not be as big as this one._ "No. I'm keeping it."

If she thought that Steph was being irrationally rash, Beryl didn't voice her opinion. Beryl just rubbed her back and nodded, playing the part of the supportive friend. Steph hugged her for that and that alone.

"The Bat's the dad, then? No other gentlemen to rope into this?"

"Barring immaculate conception, yes."

"A nasty bit of business, that." Beryl paused, worrying a hank of her short ginger hair between her thumb and forefinger. "You going to tell him?"

"No," Stephanie said, lacing her hands protectively over her stomach, and her heart broke just a little bit more. "He can't know."

"And it's _he can't know_, not _I can't tell him,"_ she said, the two options weighed with emphasis.

It was Metropolis all over again. People assumed the worst from Damian, and she couldn't peel away that anti-bat bias for long enough to get her point across. Telling them who he was with her translated to others as the excuses of an abused woman. She wanted to just shake them, make them _look_ at her, demand if they really thought that what her Daddy had done to her had made her weak to controlling men. She wanted them to trust her—-to trust _him._ He felt that almost everyone was against him, so he'd cut out the need for allies who would watch his back. It'd cost him everything, but he'd done it.

Steph pressed her hands against her eyes, hard. "It's not what you think."

"I'm not thinking what you think I am," Beryl said, her gaze sharp and earnest. "Communications powers are what I do, right? I know what you're trying to get across, even if I have to dodge between the lines a bit. Sounds to me like you're protecting him or sommat, not the other way around."

The warmth that rushed through her made Steph feel lifted off her feet, floating. Finally. Finally, someone who got it. Finally, someone who didn't just _assume_ that her situation was what it looked like at first glance.

"Yeah," she said, her voice reduced to a dry whisper. "That's pretty much it."

Beryl gnawed on her lower lip.

"You need a cuppa," she announced, putting a hand on her arm and squeezing. "More tea than I might have on hand, but it'll be a start. I'll ring up Hank and tell him to put the kettle on. If you don't have any objections, I'd like to pull Cyril into this chat. He's as trustworthy as they come, and if he can help I know that he will."

Steph's kneejerk reaction was a lot like how a middle school kid felt when a teacher kindly offered to talk to the principal or a counselor about the 'worrying' collection of bruises she had—-at least, that's how her childhood had gone. Her reaction at that moment was the same when faced with the idea of seeking help from an authority figure: no, she was fine, she could handle it, she didn't want anyone sticking their fingers in her private business. Daddy had given her such a warped view of what unsolicited help from upstanding people entailed.

"No," she said, combing back her bed-tangled hair nervously. "It's—-I'll figure it out on my own. I'm okay. I don't want to bother him with this."

Beryl frowned deeply. "I don't know what you're going on about, 'cos as far as I'm concerned, friends are never a bother. You're a friend, and Hutchinsons don't make light of friendship. Sheldrakes, neither. I don't think now's the time to cling to pride. And three heads are better than two, right?"

Most of Steph's head was spinning, a looped train of panic that kept adding on speed and cars the longer she worried the issue. She was pregnant, she was technically homeless, it was Damian's, it was_Damian's and hers_, she couldn't fight, she couldn't do this without support, she couldn't go back to Metropolis or Gotham and expect it _not_to get back to Damian that she was pregnant, and he'd know, he'd know that she hadn't been with anyone else, and he'd—-what would he do? What would he say? Would he pressure her to abort, would he want to be the father, or would he ignore it and her? She didn't know which one terrified her more.

This was different from the first time. Dean had been a washed-up nobody at twenty, so she'd been able to drop him like a bad habit and excise him from her life. She hadn't loved him—-had barely even liked him. It'd been easy, comparably, and her choice had been made for her. She loved Damian, and she wanted this child, and there was a high possibility that putting a baby with half his genetics up for adoption would end badly further on down the road, so for once she truly had no idea what to do.

Her luck. Her awful, awful _Brown Luck._

Beryl put her arm around her again, letting her lean her weight into her. Steph hadn't realized she'd been trembling until Beryl started to rub her back soothingly.

"Listen. I know one of your secrets, so you can have one of mine. S'only fair. Cyril's my—-" Her eyelashes fluttered as she closed her eyes, visibly trying to dredge up a word. "—-I don't know if there's a word for what he is to me, but he's been trying to make me Countess of Wordenshire for a good five years now. I've turned him down more times than I can count, 'cos I'm a Knight, not a Countess. It'd be a scandal, seeing as the people of Wordenshire have certain expectations of Hutchinsons and Sheldrakes, and class-climbing nonsense isn't one of 'em. I—-I s'pose what I mean, is that I get what it's like to fill that empty spot in a man's soul, even if it don't look right to everyone else."

If she were being honest, Steph had already known that there was something between them. The way Cyril looked at Beryl wasn't the way a man looked at his pseudo-little sister; his love was quiet and real and deep. The difference between the way Beryl had saved Cyril and the way that Steph had saved Damian was small, but profound: instead of filling an empty spot in his soul, she'd filled the vacuous space where his soul had been.

That's what she'd imagined, at least. Now, she wasn't so sure.

"He'll understand," Beryl said, gently insistent. "We care about you, you batty girl. Let's put our heads together and come up with a plan."

Steph nodded numbly. She needed _something_ stable to hold onto.

* * *

><p>The Sheldrake castle was a <em>real<em> castle, older than any other building Steph had personally been in, and the narrow archer's windows and hilltop perch spoke of it being built in much different times. On the inside, there was the requisite family heirlooms and tapestries, rich baubles of nobility, but it'd all been laced with modern creature comforts. Cyril's study, his favorite room in the castle, was ancient and modern all at once. Trailing Beryl inside, Steph was half afraid to touch anything—-it felt too much like a museum exhibit, despite the television on the one wall not covered floor to ceiling by shelves bursting with leather-bound books.

"Ah!" Cyril said, a hand over his mouth as he discreetly finished chewing his bite of toast. "You're just in time. Wayne's on the telly. I think you might want to hear this."

"What that bag of hot air's got to say isn't important right now," Beryl said, then shot an apologetic look at Steph. "No offense to you or your taste, of course."

"None taken," she said magnanimously. "He _is_ a jerk. I know this better than anyone."

"Erm. Well." Cyril floundered. "It's about you, actually. Er. _Batwoman_, but. That's you."

Steph sat down a little bit quicker than she meant to, but not quickly enough to beat the dizzy spell that rushed up and over her.

"What. The _hell_. Is he doing?" She growled, somewhere between horrified and furious.

A press conference about Batwoman? He wouldn't. He wouldn't _dare_disavow supporting her as a member of what remained of Batman Incorporated. He could be petty, and vengeance was built into his job description, but he wouldn't try to get back at her. He was better than that. Plus, the title of Batwoman wasn't his to give and take. Batman had never appointed Batwoman, and Kate had given her blessing.

He couldn't take that away from her. He knew how important it was to her, how much she needed to be a Bat. Damian wouldn't shame her publicly for wronging him…would he?

Her stomach lurched, stress and morning sickness all rolled into one sticky, bitter bundle. Beryl sat down next to her, placing a wastebasket on the floor between them.

"If you need it, don't hesitate," she told her in an undertone.

To his credit, Cyril was doing a good job of keeping his questions to himself. He was far too polite to demand why Batwoman might be in danger of throwing up in his study, so he ate his toast and waited to be included in whatever it is that was happening.

Bless the man and his patience, Steph thought as her stomach did mad acrobatics under her ribs. She'd had morning sickness during her first pregnancy, but it hadn't been anywhere near as vicious. The amount of worrying and running around England that she'd been doing hadn't helped, probably.

It hit her then that she'd have to hang up the cape for at least the next… Steph did some quick mental math; if her last night with Damian had been the time of conception, she'd be somewhere around nine or ten weeks. That meant that she'd be out of commission as Batwoman for the better part of a year, so whatever Damian had to say about her would be null and void, anyway. That made her feel at least a little bit better, though disappearing for that long might mean he'd come looking for her.

Steph wasn't sure if she wanted that or not. She was caught precariously between extremes, and weighing the pros and cons wasn't helping dredge up an answer.

Seeing him on screen didn't help, either. To anyone who knew him only as the trust fund son of the late Bruce Wayne, billionaire and industry giant, he radiated calm charisma. His suit was impeccable, and not one hair was out of place. He could've been a movie star, a stranger paid to present a perfect front. He was _too_ glossily well-kept, which no one but her would have been able to guess. If he looked that put together, it was because he'd had to put real time, effort, and concentration to look that put together. Not even him, with his superior genetics, could look that flawless without trying.

She hated herself a little bit, right then. He was struggling, and even though she was, too, _she_ had support. She had her own friends. He had the cat, and the cat wouldn't turn into his namesake and give him advice and distractions and tea when he needed them. He had Colin, but she doubted he'd go to him for encouragement. When upset, he shut everyone out and shut down. Damian was alone, and she hated that he'd put her in the position that tormented them both.

But he was a prideful man, and he wouldn't back down. That was what scared her.

A small throng of disorganized reporters were spread around him, cameras and boom poles and men and women in nice suits thrusting microphones at him. The closest one—-a man she recognized from the Gotham Evening News—-held a mic too close to him, making his lip curl automatically.

"Mr. Wayne, Chet Simms from Channel Six News. You've kept funding your father's 'Batman Incorporated' project, footing the bill for costumed vigilantes worldwide. In the last month, Gotham's own Batwoman has been repeatedly seen with the British heroine Knightress. Is this a move toward planting American heroes on foreign soil?"

Steph pressed a hand over her mouth. She hadn't thought what it would look like, her staying in England for weeks. She just hadn't thought. The politics involved in vigilante work went completely over her head; she was a puncher and a kicker, not a businesswoman or diplomat. When Bruce had made Batman Inc public, he'd changed the rules of the game. Batman left the realm of urban legends, confirming for the world that he was yet another man on a payroll. This had taken away the edge off his mystery—-though, the age of the cell phone camera and the internet had done that for him, mostly. It'd put them into the public eye, which opened them to public scrutiny. There was nothing that the media liked more than to put their two cents in, and it'd never even _occurred_ to her.

"That operative is indeed working under direction of Batman Incorporated," Damian lied smoothly. "But you must understand, Mr. Simms, that I seek to preserve my father's best intentions in every way possible. Batman Inc's goal is not—-as you imply—-to sow seeds of conquest globally. Presenting such an idea is not only completely uninformed, it insults the memory of this city's most brilliant philanthropist. My father did not want to control others who followed in the footsteps of his Batman. He provided funding and aid to those who would take up the role of vigilantes of their own accord, and his criteria for inclusion were morally sound and kept as law. He did this at great personal cost, and to much criticism."

"Yes," said the polished reporter, obviously trying to guide him back to the juicy details and away from discussing the finer points of the late, great Bruce Wayne. "But England's crime rate doesn't warrant sending the Batwoman there, does it? Or do you know something that the rest of the world doesn't know, Mr. Wayne?"

"I am a businessman, not a crimefighting mastermind," Damian said frostily, though every word was carefully tamed. "That operative acts alone. If you bring this up because you believe that Gotham will be left unprotected, be assured that the Batman has no intention of leaving. Gotham is his to protect, and he would never shirk his duty." His nostrils flared, and she knew—-she _knew_—-that he was suppressing a derisive little _tt_. "If I've answered your questions to your satisfaction, I believe we're finished here."

Hands shot up, paired with cries of _"Mr. Wayne!"_, but he waved them off with a barely-audible murmur of "No more questions, please," and was escorted to his car. The anchorman cut to commercials, and Steph exhaled the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

"Well," Beryl said, the first to break the silence. Her head was cocked slightly to the left in thought. "He's gone a bit mental, hasn't he?"

"What?" Steph looked at her quizzically, surprised. _She'd_ gathered that much, but she was an expert in deciphering what Damian was saying. "I mean, yeah, yeah he is, but I didn't think it was obvious."

"He looks cool as a cucumber, sure, but." Beryl paused. Her brows knitted, her eyes softened with sympathy. "It's what he wasn't saying that's telling. He couldn't say your name. Not even once."

"It's good news though, isn't it?" Cyril asked, searching them both for answers overtop is teacup. "He more or less said that Batwoman's still under his protection, yeah?"

"More or less," Beryl said, still frowning at the screen. "More less than more, I feel. He didn't want to say it. Didn't want to say anything on the matter at all. What a sad, sorry sap."

"It's not my place to pry, Stephanie," said Cyril, hesitant and polite in a way only he could pull off believably. "But leaving Gotham was your choice, wasn't it? I'd assumed that you'd been, erm, pushed out a bit for whatever reason, but this…"

Even to complete strangers and guarded by a sheet of forced indifference, Damian didn't look or sound like a man who'd thrown his girlfriend and partner out into the cold.

Steph could all but feel Beryl holding back on explaining the little that she knew, and she was grateful for that. But, she'd been right. Cyril honestly seemed to want to help, and they were far enough removed from the politics and tangles of the American heroes that she felt safe telling them.

"I left. It was my choice, because he—-he got himself into this friggin'_mess_ and he wouldn't let me or anyone else help him out of it. He was killing himself over it, and I just. I couldn't watch him do it, you know? He's a good man, but he doesn't believe that he is. He's stubborn, and arrogant, and stupid, and—-and he's going to be a father. Oh my god,_he's_ going to be a father," Steph mumbled into her fingers. The thought kept coming back around, shocking her over and over in small ways.

She could actually _watch_ the realization hit Cyril, the dawning knowledge rising as his eyebrows arched up toward his hairline.

"He's—-? Oh. Erm. That's—-it's very…"

"What he means to say is congratulations," Beryl said, rubbing her back. "And we're both very happy for you."

"Yes. Both?" When Beryl nodded at him, color crept up past his collar._"Both._ Yes. Quite happy for you."

"If you need to stay here through it, all you have to do is ask me, ducks. There's not much room, but we can," Beryl seemed to mentally map her flat for any room that could fit a baby, frowning. "Re-organize. I'd wager there's plenty of space that can be freed up if we just tidied up a bit. I love babies, you know. Wouldn't be a bother."

"Nonsense," Cyril said, setting his cup of tea back in its saucer with a faint _tink_ of possible finality. "You'll stay here. Erm. Both, that is." He looked at Beryl, trying hard to interpret her reaction. "If you'd like."

A single pregnant woman staying with the Earl of Wordenshire would spell scandal in big red letters, so that _both_ held a lot of meaning. It was an invitation to Steph, of course, but even more of an invitation to Beryl. He looked so cautiously hopeful, Steph kind of wanted to walk over and hug him and thank him for being such a decent human being.

"Would you make me take out me piercings?" Beryl asked after giving it an eternally long moment's thought.

"You know how I feel about you sticking bits of metal in your pretty face," Cyril sighed. "But no, I would not."

She paused again, her fingers skating a soothing pattern over Steph's back.

"Would I have to cook?"

"I'd really rather if you didn't," he said, kind but very firm.

Beryl shrugged like it was no big deal—-like she hadn't just agreed to make their libelous relationship public, like she had expected him to pop that question all along, like she hadn't more or less said that she'd be his Countess if she wasn't required to take out her piercings or cook. That was how Beryl was, though.

"Well, that settles it," she said cheerfully, snagging and eating the rest of Cyril's toast. "Both it is."

Yeah, this was exactly what Steph had needed. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she'd gotten enough distance to breathe again. She had friends, and she had a sense of security, and she had a worst-case-scenario kind of plan. She could stay in Worden until she knew what to do with herself, and if that meant having a baby in England, that option was open for her. It was a relief, moving away from that free-fall limbo of_what now?_.

"Truly, I don't mean to pry, but…if Wayne does come calling, I don't know how to greet him," Cyril said in the contemplative silence that followed. "If he's got himself into a mess, helping him out of jam would be the least I could do for him, and for you, and for his father's memory. I, ah. Drat."

"What my Cyril means," Beryl said, forever the interpreter for her earl. "Is that we'd be better prepared for this if we knew what made you pack your bags."

Steph hadn't been able to tell anyone. She'd held her tongue for three reasons: out of respect for Damian's privacy, because she knew that half the heroing community would flip out if they knew what he'd done, and because she hadn't been sure that they'd _believe_ her. Belief in magic was one thing—-and most had to see it first-hand to believe in it—-but adding in demons and angels to the mix prompted many an eye-roll. Too many charlatans, human and otherwise, falsely advertised themselves as demons to make people believe in the existence of the real deal.

If she hadn't seen Damian die and come back again and again, she would've had trouble believing it herself.

But England wasn't America, and what was and wasn't believable was different, here.

Steph took a deep breath, propping up her confidence.

"Ever heard of a Faustian deal?"

* * *

><p>He was an eternally discordant creature, thriving on the contradictory. Shrinks and psychics had poked around the dim-lit corridors of his brain before, and they'd either lost hope in base truths or had been driven mad. They brought it on themselves, worming in where they didn't belong.<p>

Many had tried to put labels on them, but he'd worked most of them off. The simplest one—-the truest one—-was that he was a punk. He'd been born a punk, seeping anger like a poorly healed wound slowly oozing pus, and so when the movement came, he was there with bloody knuckles. Most of his kind had either sobered up or burnt out, but he was a slippery customer. If the fire demanded a sacrifice, he offered a breathing Guy in his stead. He didn't particularly like himself—-or the rest of humanity, by extension—-but he didn't particularly want to die, either.

He knew what was waiting down there. He'd taken the guided tour more than once—-had gulped down a slippery tongue that'd tasted like battery acid and the keening cries of every babe left to die of exposure in the hopes that it'd please a God who frankly didn't give a fuck. His blood still sang darkly from the places he'd been, the deals he'd made. His heart chugged hell's sewage, and another man might have begged imperfect contrition.

But he was a punk, even at age sixty-seven. He didn't look a day over damned, though, so he was younger than his years. When asked, he attributed it to good drugs, better sex, and a vow never to let a bad habit be left untried. He didn't want to be saved, and he didn't want to die, and he didn't want to have to drink anything but quality liquor.

So he didn't.

His nights blended, but life was all about that blend, wasn't it? Nothing was ever simple, and nothing had a pure form. Not good, and certainly not evil, and mankind was inherently neither. If anything, mankind was inherently stupid, but made up for this birth defect by being stubborn.

This night was still young, two fingers of salmon-colored sunset spread over the worn bartop. He was sober enough to breathe in his surroundings, interested enough in his fellow drinkers not to tune out their braying quite yet. They didn't have anything new to offer him, but sometimes they surprised him. This wasn't his usual bar, nor his usual town, but when he was in a fair mood—-and didn't want Fate and Destiny to fuck each other raw—-he just put one foot in front of the other and saw where it led him. It expedited the process of being in the right place at the right time.

His entertainment for the night had come early, too. He knew the blond woman in the borrowed duster—-had to be borrowed; she was too short for it—-was what had brought him there, but he let her come to him, first. Letting them choose the first line made them less skittish, he'd found, and gave him room enough to decide if he gave a shit or not. She'd been staring at him intently for the better part of fifteen minutes, screwing up what was probably too much courage for her body and well-being. Then, she sat down next to him.

"Hi," she said, her accent brassily American. "Can we talk?"

"You don't get something for nothing, luv," he said, addressing his tepid beer more than the woman sitting next to him. He'd seen a hundred thousand girls like him in his time: pretty, but not too pretty, neatly dressed, but not too smooth, aggressive, but not to the point that someone would slap her with choice four letter words.

"I know. Believe me. That's kind of my problem."

She put an unopened pack of Silk Cuts on the bar top, flicking it negligently toward him across the gummy wood.

Ah, lovely. She knew just who she was talking to, then. Nothing chance about this meeting.

Complicated, but interesting. He wasn't a man who did things because the were right or wrong, or even because he did or didn't want to do them. He did the things that interested him, rather than the things that kept humanity as a whole from fucking itself to death. He was a bastard of the highest order, but once in a while he mucked about with what he considered charity work. It was always more trouble than it was worth, but it kept him young.

That, or the remnants of Nergal's blood that befouled his veins. Either-or.

"How's that to start with? PS, the Earl of Wordenshire says hi, and that you still owe him one for that time with that thing and the hooker."

He smiled. Couldn't help it, really.

"Mm. Bend my ear a bit, then. What has you here? Business? Pleasure?"

"Deals," she said, and smiled like a wolf instead of a girl. "Heard you knew your way around them. I've got this problem on my hands, and I want to cheat. I want to cheat the _fuck_ out of it."

Such fire, such determination. Women like her were the reason humanity hadn't successfully wiped itself out—-not yet, anyway.

"The key isn't cheating, luv," John Constantine grinned, and stuck a cigarette in his mouth to light. "It's knowing who it is you're scamming, and knowing how much you'll _bleed_ for it."

"I'll do what I have to do," the poor girl said, and he believed her.


	10. ALTERNATE END: Part 3

It only took about twenty seconds of talking to John Constantine for Steph to realize that she'd never talked to a man like John Constantine before, and she'd probably never talk to a man like him again. She was usually good at figuring people out. If she had any inborn talent at all, it was communication. She didn't have Beryl's level of mastery, but she could almost always tell what was and wasn't really being said, and why.

John defied definition. She couldn't tell what was going on in his head, other than she probably didn't want to know the details. There were some people that she wanted to understand, and some that she knew she was better off holding them at arm's length. John was one of the latter, as interesting a man as he was.

But she'd expected that. Beryl hadn't come out and said that he was_dangerous_, but she'd hedged around the word enough to make Steph believe that he was more dangerous than words could paint and too slippery to outline. Her advice had been brief: "Don't muck around with pretending to be anyone you're not, 'cos he hates that. If he says he doesn't want to get involved, tell him thank you anyhow and leave. He's got a way about him, Steph. He's sold friends to save his own skin, so you'd best believe he'd do that and more to a stranger."

She'd kept that in mind, but she hadn't let it scare her. John was the first real lead that she'd had, and she wasn't going to flub that chance by worrying about what he may or may not do if he didn't like her.

Her personal brand of fearlessness - one part actual fearlessness, one part stubbornness, and one part just not knowing when to give up when the getting was good - hadn't failed her too badly over the years, and it'd just happened to charm Mr. Constantine. He had, he admitted over beer and a cigarette she wouldn't let him light, something of a soft spot for spitfires. Some may have called women like her harpies or bossy or even just bitches, but he preferred a brass tacks kind of girl, especially in this day and age.

Steph didn't tell him who she was, or whose soul she was petitioning for, but she she had a feeling that he knew already. She didn't use names, but the particular tilt of a grin made her all too sure that he thought her hardwired desire to keep some kind of secret identity was adorable.

Magic people. They were kind of smug, when it came right down to it.

"And he's an asshole," she said, with the moody surety of someone who knew exactly how _much_ of an asshole Damian could be. "But I still feel like the situation he got himself into isn't his fault, you know? He was a kid. He didn't know what he was doing, and I don't think that he ever really wanted to make the deal. He just figures he's stuck with it now. He's doing this whole martyr thing, and he doesn't even know about the baby yet - and I know that'll make it worse. Frankly, it's pissing me off."

"Well," John said, rolling his shoulders in a barely-there, barely-invested shrug. "If you tell him about the bun he put in your oven, he'll straighten out on his own. Odds are in your favor. Blue-bloods 'ave two ways about propriety: he'll either marry you to make your bastard legal, or he'll give you the means to live before he sweeps you under the rug."

"He won't do either," she said firmly. She couldn't even name the sharp edges that were poking into her, the emotions that churned and grated on the inside. Being reduced to 'wronged, knocked up lover' terms felt cheap, and calling her baby a bastard felt worse by far. She and Damian had never been caught up in impressing anyone else, or following societal standards. They'd respected each other, and she'd - she'd promised herself that after Dean, she'd never be _that girl_ again. "Because I'm not going to tell him about the baby. I don't want him to be influenced by what he thinks he 'owes' me."

"Ah!" John cried, mock-hurt. "So you're one of those, then. _Dirty rotten idealist._ And I'd had such hopes for you, luv."

"I'm an idealist, but I'll still cheat to get my way. In this scenario, 'my way' is getting him out of hell. I'm giving the man a choice, but if I have to show my full hand, so be it."

"Now, see," John said, finishing his beer and raising two fingers to the bartender for another. "That's where things get a mite sticky. I know you think he's a real gem, but scrub off that lovey film for two moments. What makes you figure that he isn't headed for hell _anyhow?"_

And that thought hadn't ever really occurred to her - not like that, not fully.

Damian was a killer. Past tense, sure, but sins were sins and he'd never sought absolution. She had no concept of how many people he'd murdered as a child, no idea how many lives he'd snuffed out.

Murderers ended up in hell. They had their own reserved seating. Seventh circle, front row.

"Gotta powder my nose," Steph said, pushing her chair back with shaking hands.

She calmly walked to the bathroom, opened the door, and stood beside the sinks. She had to swallow repeatedly to clear the bile surging a hot line up the back of her throat, but she did - _had_ to. She had to keep her head, had to stay strong, even though her body was fighting her every step of the way.

Steph was stubborn as hell. If there was any one word that described her, it was _determined_, chased closely by _hopeful_, and whether Damian liked it or not, all that stubborn hope was going to be pushed in his face. She wasn't - _couldn't_ - ignore her pregnancy, but there were things that had to be done.

Yes, Damian had made mistakes. Yes, he had done horrible things. She was intimately familiar with all of that. But if _she_ gave up on him - when he wasn't even twenty-one years old and had already given up on himself for all eternity - who did he have in his corner of the ring? Nobody.

She loved him. He was an asshole who hated himself and most of the people around him, but she loved him.

So Steph gripped the edge of the sink with one hand, biting the fingers of her other. She bit down hard on her knuckles, forcing herself to breathe evenly and control her body and its reactions. Yes, she was pregnant. Yes, her hormones and emotions were going through wild ups and downs.

But goddammit, she was _still Batwoman._

It took a few minutes, but she wrestled herself under control. Her knuckles throbbed from where her teeth had dug in, but she hadn't thrown up. Every small victory was celebrated, at this point.

John had ordered her a ginger ale and stirred it with a straw until it was flat, leaving it on the bar in front of her empty chair with no comment. She sipped it gratefully when she sat back down, though it didn't do much to settle her stomach.

"I don't care," she said, once she'd taken a drink and swallowed down her nausea for good. "I'm going to save him anyway."

"By the golden standards, his soul isn't worth saving. He's no great hero," John said, giving her a sideways glance. He had this way of looking at her that made her feel like he could see through her, at least a little. She had loads of new insight as to why Bruce hadn't liked the magical crowd. "_But_, that doesn't make saving him impossible. If you think there's something in the little bastard worth keeping around, that's your prerogative. All it means is that it won't be easy. A simple switch is one thing, but you'll have to barter."

"Barter?" she repeated, chasing the thought with a gulp of ginger ale.

He nodded. "See, there's two ways about this thing. Demons don't do nothing they don't want to, so you've got to have their number dialed in, so to speak. You've gotta have some leverage, and it absolutely must be good, or you run the risk of ending up a bloody smear. Either you blackmail one of the slimy bastards, or you trade 'em something of greater value than what they've got. It's imperative that they feel like they're the one getting the most out of the exchange."

John's voice sounded tinny and far away. The magnitude of what he was saying was too big to process, so it left her numb.

"So, if I want to get his soul back, I have to sell someone else's soul," Steph heard herself say.

"That's it precisely. And if you're going to do it, it has to be soon," he said, flicking a pointed look at her stomach. "'Cos demons have a cultured taste for the flesh of innocents, and nothing's as innocent as a newborn. Demons think it poetic - as soon as you have it, they won't take anything else in a trade. It won't be interested until it's born, though. It's not considered a proper soul until it's taken its first breath on its own." John shrugged again, mulling over his beer. "And don't harp on the ethics and issues of that. I'm only telling you how they play the game, not saying how it ought to be played."

Steph nodded mechanically. She understood. She was silently repulsed by the mere _idea_, but she understood.

If she was going to save Damian, she'd have to damn someone else to hell in his place. If she was going to save him and not jeopardize the life of their child, she'd have to do it in the next couple of months. If she was going to save him because he wanted to be saved and not because he felt obligated to her, she'd have to do it before she started showing. That left her with a horrific decision to make and no time to make it in.

Her lungs felt crushed by the sheer hopelessness of the situation.

Maybe she'd been wrong all along.

Maybe Wayne luck was even worse than Brown luck.

* * *

><p>Jason could keep track of the day of the week by keeping a finger pressed to the pulse of the street. For all the ups and downs, all the coups and attempts to push control one way or the other, there was a rhythm to it. For someone like him, who had been a part of the street for what amounted to too much of his life, he could swear by it. Everything was cyclical. Domestic abuse on paydays and holidays was no-brainer stuff, but it went deeper than that. Aggravated assaults and murders happened the most on Saturdays and Sundays, climbing steadily through the day and peaking around midnight. Burglaries and thefts were more common during the week, especially on Wednesdays and Fridays. Thefts spiked in the early evenings, burglaries in the early mornings. Summer meant ice cream trucks and murders. Schizos fell apart during full moons. Jason didn't need a calendar or a watch when he had the bloody dregs of humanity keeping time for him.<p>

There was a weird kind of comfort in it, a familiarity. So long as there was crime, he had a reason to prowl the streets and keep a finger on its pulse. How he felt about his role had a cycle, too. Sometimes it was a grim satisfaction, sometimes it was a burden, but it always was _his_ role.

He was a bad man who did bad things. All the little bats and birds knew that.

So that was why it jarred him when something shifted, something_changed_, and the city's pulse increased its beat. Batman - and all the men who had worn that cowl - was as constant as crime itself, always semi-visible unless he had a damn good reason not to patrol. A couple of months back, though, the Bat had disappeared for almost two weeks. Now, his presence was erratic - sometimes he'd be at the edge of Jason's periphery for a week solid, then he'd be gone for days. In that week or more that he was around, he was fucking _everywhere_: relentless and increasingly violent, rattling the gutters from dusk to dawn without any breaks. Then there'd be a day or two of absolute radio silence, and the cycle would turn over.

Jason wasn't sure what to make of it. Dick and Bruce had been cut from similar cloth, altruistic and self-limiting. Damian, though - Damian was more like Jason himself than any of the others. His limitations were the ones that Bruce had set, and he'd been over the edge of them before. He hadn't thought that the kid would adjust well to being Daddy's little stand-in, but for the last couple of years he'd been pretty stable.

Something had changed, and he had a feeling it had to do with the fact that his better half was doing the Bat equivalent to backpacking around Europe. He'd watched this all play out, interested but not all that invested, and figured that it was none of his business if the Batman was losing his shit. Hell, it would be kind of poetic, in a way. Jason hadn't planned to get involved, but he'd always gotten sucked into the politics of the Wayne legacy whether he liked it or not.

This time, it started with a phone call. It figured that it was a Saturday, which meant aggravated assault with a light sprinkling of drug running thrown in to keep things fresh. Jason was pinned behind a stack of shipping crates, but he wasn't all that worried about it. Most hoods were dumb, and poorly-equipped to boot. Sometimes, the key to victory was patience, because sooner or later they would run out of ammo and stop spraying bullets. It'd take a lot more than some strung-out idiots with shitty Chinese knock-offs of shitty Russian guns to take him out.

Maybe he was a little cocky, but he'd always had a smart mouth and a healthy ego - and he could back it all up with skill, and that's what _really_mattered.

So he'd been cooling his heels and idly counting rounds when his phone started ringing. It wasn't a number he gave out often, and he'd programmed in ringtones to give him a fair warning if it was a call he'd rather miss. Only a complete idiot would have real names or monikers stored in the memory, so the ringtones were things that only he would be able to associate with the numbers.

Dick got a stirring tribute by Sir Mix-a-Lot, Timbo was "White and Nerdy" by Weird Al, Damian was "Stacey's Mom" for obvious reasons, and back in the day, Bruce had been given no ringtone at all - he knew better than to think he'd call him first.

But his phone was merrily pealing the opening bars of "Walking on Sunshine," which meant he _had_ to answer. Jason swore at the fucking_timing_ of it all, yelled, "Just a moment, gentlemen! I have me a lady caller, and you know how women are about getting pushed to voicemail!" and answered the phone with a cheerful, "Hi there, pudding-pop. How's life treating you?"

There was a beat, a moment of dead air, before Stephanie replied with a hesitant, "It's been better, I guess."

He'd figured as much. If she was in England and Batty Jr. was going cuckoo for cocoa puffs, all was not well in the cave. And maybe he'd been hoping that this would happen, at least a little bit. There was something about her that he liked - that he _wanted_. Maybe it was physical; maybe it was the natural effect of having one of the Bats trust him and give a shit about him. Either way, he was no stranger of wanting something and not having it, so the idea of possibly getting a chance at_having_ was one he found appealing.

"Tell me all about it. I'm all ears."

"Are you in the middle of something?" Steph asked, because the chuckleheads on meth had started peppering him with bullets again.

"Me?" Jason asked, mock-shocked. He stretched out his long legs, twirling his gun around his index finger. "Oh, no, not at all. I can talk."

"Jay," she said, her tone flat. "I can _hear_ the gunshots."

He flicked a quick look at the men, held the phone to his chest to muffle the sound, and dropped one of them. Quick, efficient, and neat. Having a certain _savoir-faire_ about his job was what made him a natural, and not just another thug with a gun.

"Just a bug," he informed her, holding the phone against the crook of his shoulder as he reloaded.

"You're capping a bug with a gun?" Steph asked, completely unconvinced.

"It's a _big_ bug."

"_Jason."_

"Snookums, this is Gotham. This bug is big, armed, and has gang connections in four countries. Everything in Gotham is big and mean and ugly. I promise that it hasn't changed since you left. I mean, if _anything_, it's gotten a little less sunshiney," he said with a shit-eating grin she couldn't see.

"I don't have the energy to argue with you about this," she said, and she truly sounded like she didn't.

"Then don't argue with me, and tell me why you called."

"I - I don't know. I just - I'm - "

Jason took the tiny window of her stammered hesitance to take out the other gunman. The things he had to do to get a little peace and quiet to have a conversation.

"Shh, shh, take a deep breath and relax. I'm in no hurry."

"I'm pregnant."

It wasn't every day that someone said something that robbed him of a witty comeback, but Stephanie was full of surprises.

"What?" Jason demanded, standing up and frowning. He'd heard her, of course, but he wanted to make _sure_.

"Preggers," she said tiredly, tonelessly. Unhappily. "Knocked up. Expecting a little bat-bundle of bat-joy. Need I go on?"

"Seriously?"

"Do you really think I'd joke about this?"

There was a soft edge of pain in the way she said _joke_ that actually, honestly bothered him. Tallying up the clues and facts, he wasn't surprised. Something had happened that'd pushed Damian into batshit territory, she was three thousand miles and change away, he was suddenly looking like one of the more even-tempered and reasonable vigilantes on the street, and now there was a baby to factor into the whole mess.

God, sometimes he swore that the bat clan was just one big, fucked up soap opera, and he was the only one with enough distance to see it for what it really was: Daddy Issues R' Us. The irony didn't escape him. He knew he was one of the bunch, but that didn't mean he couldn't accept that about himself.

"No. I don't think you'd joke about that. I'm just a little - " Angry? Confused? " - surprised that I'm on the phone tree, that's all. For one reason or another, I don't get the good news calls very often."

"Yeah, well." Stephanie sighed. She really didn't sound good, and he suffered the unexpected urge to find Damian and put him through a wall or five. Caring did weird things to his head - probably because he was out of practice. "You're actually the first one in the 'family' that I've told."

"Hold on. Back the fuck up for two seconds. _I'm_ the first one to know?" Jason didn't even know what to do with that information - that _trust._ Of all the possible people, she'd called him. Not her old pal Babsy, not her old boyfriend Timmy, not even - "Shit. Lemme guess. Babybat's the babydaddy, and you haven't told him, either."

The watery silence said it better than her small, eventual, "He can't know yet."

Sometimes, Jason wanted to be a part of the life he'd had before his life had gotten an unexpected sequel. Sometimes, he wanted to be as far away from it as he possibly could. Most of the time, he was stuck in the gravitational pull of the Bat, and once in a while he got pulled in all the way.

"Look. It's - what, one or two in the morning where you're at? Lay down, take a metaphorical chill pill, and I'll be there when you get up. I don't want to discuss this over the phone."

There was a hitch in her breathing. "I'm in England. You don't have to - "

"Yeah, I know," he interrupted, and started to stack the dirty merch to burn. "You want to talk, so I'm wrapping up this roach motel and hopping the next flight. Shut up about it."

"Jason, I - "

"Do me a favor and stow the thanks. I don't do shit for thank you cards. Just go to sleep, preggo. Stress and pregnancy do not a healthy baby make."

Steph said thank you anyway, because she was stubborn and did what she wanted. Then she hung up, which freed his hands to quickly raze and burn the wannabe meth moguls.

He really hated when he got involved in the affairs of bats. It never ended well for him. He was getting too old for this particular cycle.

* * *

><p>Steph tried to sleep, but sleep wasn't in the cards. Every time she closed her eyes, her eyelids dance with grotesque <em>maybes<em>: all the bad things that could happen if she tried to deal with the demon - what if the demon decided it wanted her baby, even as small and underdeveloped as it was; what if that was how Damian found out; what if it just scooped it out of her; what would she do if she lost this one, how would she deal - all the bad things that could happen if she tried to talk with Damian - what if she'd projected her feelings about their partnership onto him, and he didn't actually give a damn either way; what if she set up the whole new deal and he backed out; what if he turned out to be as sociopathic and hard-hearted as people painted him; what would she do if she'd been played for three years, how would she deal - what if, what if, what if.

Her head was too busy to shut down, and stress brought on nausea. She ended up just sitting on the floor in the bathroom, a blanket around her shoulders. It cut down on having to make trips from her bedroom to the toilet, and it wasn't like she was finding rest in her bed, anyway.

It all boiled down to two questions. One: was she willing to throw someone else's soul under the bus for Damian's sake? And two: if she was, if she could make herself go there, who would she choose? Would it be worth it? Would she be able to live with herself if she sent someone's soul to damnation, and ended up with a big fat zero in return - or worse?

The two main questions didn't have answers. They only prompted endless strings of more questions, and Steph didn't know what to think or where to go from there.

She'd meant it when she'd told John that she was willing to sacrifice to set things right with Damian. She just hadn't known that might mean sacrificing another person. Personal sacrifice was one thing, but offering up someone else was another thing entirely.

Steph had been almost asleep, sitting up with her back against the bathroom wall, when her cellphone had started to shrill the opening lyrics of "Bad Reputation." It was a text message from Jason, not a call, and it gave her the name of a motel in town and a room number.

He'd been true to his word. He really had hopped the next flight to England.

Steph washed her face, braided back her hair, and brushed her teeth twice. She still didn't feel like a presentable human being, but it was as good as she was going to get on short notice.

Twenty minutes and a bus ride later, she was knocking on the door of his motel room, wondering distantly what the _hell_ she was doing with her life choices.

Pregnant, thousands of miles from home, and willingly walking into a motel room that held one Jason Todd the Probably Untrustable. It sounded like the setup to a Lifetime original movie, and it pissed her off that it was her life, not a canned movie plot. If this was really a Lifetime movie, though, Jason would bare his secret emotive, gentle side and take her away from all the terrible complications. That, or she'd end up pushed down a flight of stairs by a jealous lover she'd never known about.

It was a good thing that her life was its own brand of screwed up, and didn't take its cues from Pregnant Damsel in Emotional Distress clichés.

The door opened, and there was Jason. She'd somehow forgotten how big he was. It wasn't something she'd really wanted to be reminded of, since it occurred to her that she hadn't even told Beryl where she was going. She was batting a thousand as far as terrible decisions went.

"I can't believe you flew here just to talk to me," Steph said, because _hi_felt awkward.

"And I can't believe you let the pipsqueak's little swimmers start homesteading in the fertile valley of your uterus, so let's get over our joint disbelief and move on," Jason said, and opened the door all the way for her. "You look like shit, by the way. I mean, you've got the whole pregnant glow and yadda yadda yadda, but you look like you're gonna swoon, princess. And you never struck me as the swooning type."

With Jason, she could never decide when he was insulting her and when he was complimenting her. He could do both in the same breath.

"I didn't mean to get pregnant," Steph told him sourly, and tried to not-so-obviously look for a place to sit. There was a single bed, a small round table, and one chair by the table. She took the chair, because it seemed like the safest option. Not that she thought that Jason would go there, especially _knowing_ that she was pregnant, but she had trouble reading him. She didn't know what to expect from this talk.

"I've heard that one before. But face it: you're percolating the heir to the Wayne family fortune. There are a probably a thousand women who'd rent out their womb for a shot at that grand prize."

She briefly saw red. Her emotions were more ferocious than usual in just about every direction, but that was a sore spot that Jason should have known better than to jab.

"I. Didn't. Mean. To," she said, each word clipped short. She got back up, her tiredness curling up under the heat of how suddenly angry that implication made her. "I'm not a fucking gold digger. I don't care about the money. It was a goodbye quickie gone wrong, and I'm dealing with the consequences. If you think that I - "

"I don't think that," he said, rolling his eyes. "Sit your ass down. I was joking. I know you're not going to use your little whoopsie as leverage against him. That'd make you _normal_, and let's be real. You wouldn't be talking to me, or doing what you do, if you were normal."

Steph did sit back down, feeling slightly embarrassed by how quickly she'd flipped, but he didn't seem bothered by it.

"Nothing about this is normal. This is galaxies away from normal. And that - that _is_ why I called you. I just…" Steph searched for words, but they wouldn't come.

Jason stretched out languorously on the bed, toeing off his boots and crossing his legs at the ankles.

"I came here for the full story. Lay it on me."

She didn't know where to start, so she began where Damian had, when he'd finally come clean.

"When Damian was fourteen years old, Bruce was killed. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn't his fault. But he was - he was just a kid, y'know? It scared him. That same night, he went to a crossroads, and he made a deal."

* * *

><p>It took about an hour to get it all out, from beginning to end. Jason was quiet through most of it, nodding where it was appropriate and muttering what was probably threats against Damian's health and general well-being under his breath. Steph was proud of herself, because she managed to keep even and composed through the entire explanation - even that raw, stilted description of how and why she'd left Gotham.<p>

Jason was silent for a while afterward, arms folded behind his head and gaze tilted toward the ceiling.

"He really fucked it up, didn't he," he said, less of a question and more stating fact.

"Yeah, but I think…I mean, _maybe_…he could still pull through it."

"Do you really want him to?"

The question surprised Steph, because she thought the answer was obvious. If she didn't _really_ want him to, she wouldn't have been contemplating damning someone's soul to the fiery pit. That alone should have shown a whole lot of want.

"I'm just saying," Jason continued, completely conversational. "That maybe you should take a good hard look at this. So, you're carrying a kid that's half him, half you. Being a sperm donor doesn't mean he's gonna be a good father to your spawn. He's civil on a good day, but he couldn't understand kids when he was one himself. What makes you think he'll know what to do? You know he's got a temper on him."

Steph had trouble swallowing. Her mouth had gone very dry.

"He's said that he wants kids," she said slowly, struggling with what he was saying. He was right. He was right, and he was reasonable, and Jason Todd should never be the voice of reason.

"Wanting 'em in theory and knowing what to do with 'em when you're saddled with them are two different things," he said, sitting up a little and looking at her. "And let's face it. The timing's not great. He might think you did it on purpose, to keep him in line. He's twenty, and you're almost thirty. You barely escaped making him a teen dad. If I were him? I'd resent that, at least a little bit."

She had thought these things before - had tried to tune them out, clinging instead to the solidity she'd convinced herself they had between them.

Now, hearing Jason voice her own insecurities, they seemed insurmountable. What the hell was she doing? Who was she fooling?

It was that, the problems she'd been turning a blind eye on to focus on 'demon deals et all', that made her sniff hard.

Steph just felt lost. She had thought she had it all figured out for her life, but the past four months or so had jerked the carpet out from under her feet and dropped her on her ass.

Oh, god, this really _was_ turning Lifetime on her.

Jason sighed loudly. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood over her chair. He tilted her chin up, and she thought that he might try to say something encouraging, which would have just been_bizarre_, but then he started kissing her, instead.

And kissing her was more like Jason than playing the part of the soothing maybe-friend.

She didn't push him away as quickly as she should have. Jason's hands were big and a little rough, his stubble an interesting rasp, and he was a good kisser. He knew what he was doing, and he was taking his time.

But it hit her as just a tiny bit convenient. Maybe crushing the self-esteem of distraught women and then sweeping up the pieces was a winning formula for him usually, but he'd said it himself: she wasn't a normal person.

And he didn't know Damian better than she did.

Steph pressed a hand against his chest - not aggressively, but firmly.

"Look," she said, taking a deep breath. She felt better, for whatever reason. "Maybe the whole emotional manipulation thing works for you, but I'm not buying it. You've got a point. Seriously, you do. Your argument is solid. But, that only applies to normal people. If I'm abnormal, Damian is fucking insane. He said he wanted to have kids with me the _first time_we had sex, so I'm going to believe that he'll want this baby until I have evidence to the contrary."

Jason smirked. He didn't draw back very far, but he did straighten.

"Can't blame a guy for trying his luck," he said, and instead of being pissed off that she'd seen through his scheme, he seemed to be amused. Even at her lowest, Steph was still stubborn and sharp. She didn't tolerate bullshit.

"Don't think I'm saying this is a never," Steph said, because heat had crept into her cheeks and he was still looking at her expectantly. "Just that - I - I love that jerk. I can't. Not without him. If he's going to be a martyr or doesn't want to bargain, we'll revisit this. But I still have options to exhaust. So. So whatever _this_ is, it's tabled until further notice."

Jason took a step back. He was full-out grinning, widely and crookedly.

"Huh," was all that he said. He picked up his jacket from the floor and laced up his boots. Taking a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, he tapped it against the flat of his palm a couple of times. "I need a smoke break. I'll be back in twenty minutes - a half hour, tops."

So he expected her to wait for him, basically.

Steph knew that she should take the time to check bus schedules and get back to Worden. Things would be awkward when Jason got back - there was only so far that she could feasibly push her luck before it went all Brown on her.

But getting herself up and moving was more of a fight than she had in her at the moment. She stood, but then the bed looked really inviting, and she flopped down with even less grace than usual. Between stress and morning sickness, her energy level had bottomed out. When Jason came back in, she was more than halfway asleep and still telling herself to go check the bus schedule on her phone.

He kicked off his boots, tossing his jacket over the back of a chair. He stretched out on the bed beside her, his weight making the cheap springs in the mattress squeak. Steph rolled closer to him when the bed dipped, gravity pushing her closer to him. Jason's face was cold, and he smelled like damp night air and menthol cigarettes. She ran her fingers through the vivid white shock of his bangs, kneejerk curiosity she didn't pull back. He dyed his hair, she knew, but dye didn't stay for long. She'd wondered why the back and forth between black and red, why the dye at all, but now she knew. He was covering up that broad hank of snowy hair, which she had to assume was natural - and unwanted.

Jason hid his defining marks. Even on the outside of the bat colony, he swung between the extremes of being everything they were not, and mimicking them. It was like he didn't know what he wanted. She understood the feeling a little too well.

"I've got a solution," he announced, wrapping a hand loosely around her wrist. "And we're gonna do it. When people ask, I'll take all responsibility."

If he was offering to protect her, it was a bad idea. Morally gray at best, criminal at worst. She knew that.

She took a breath, then let it out. Thought about getting up again, but didn't. She could barely keep her eyes open.

If she trusted him enough to be in the room with him, to fall asleep with him next to her, stretching that trust far enough to cover his solution wasn't all that difficult. Maybe it was a bad idea in theory, but she didn't have many options. Trusting him hadn't blown up in her face.

Not yet, at least.

"What if I shoot it down?"

"You won't. It's the best chance babybat has at getting out of the deal. You'll still be able to look at yourself in the mirror, cupcake. I promise. Nobody'll die."

"But we'll have to offer up someone's - "

"I know." Jason kissed the top of her head, putting his arm around her. "Just blame me. Everyone knows that I'm a bad man."

* * *

><p>She slept for about sixteen hours straight, which was far from a personal record, but it was still noteworthy. Jason was snoring next to her when she finally cracked her gummy eyes open again - his jeans were discarded on the floor, but he was on top of the covers instead of under them with her. Steph wouldn't have assumed that he'd be that respectful, but her new rule of thumb was to never assume anything about him. He was a lot like John, in that regard. And Damian.<p>

And maybe she was developing a type.

He woke up as soon as she started moving, yawning and stretching until his back popped.

"Feel better?" He asked, his voice still sleep-rough.

"Mmhm," she murmured, rubbing her eyes.

"You look significantly less shitty."

"You need to remember that I _do_ have the training to crush your balls before you can block me," Steph said, matching his smirk. "I'm the goddamn Batwoman. I can and will blame it on hormones."

She felt significantly less shitty, too. Jason had outlined The Plan, and he'd been absolutely right - she _hadn't_ liked it. But, she realized that of all possible options, it was the most viable one. She didn't think she'd ever be comfortable with it, but it had a weird kind of justice to it.

It wasn't good, but it wasn't bad. Bruce hadn't believed in that gray, but it seemed like it was the murky middle zone that they operated in, anymore.

Steph had agreed to the plan, but on one condition: they had to get Damian on board before they started assembling the necessary people and pieces. If he didn't want help, they couldn't force it. It was as simple as that.

And for being a simple thing, it was difficult to contemplate.

"The flight leaves in three hours," Jason said around another yawn. "If you don't want to have to share the shower, we'd better get moving."

She tossed a pillow at him before sitting up. She'd slept in her camisole and underwear, and she was all too aware of his eyes on her - specifically, on her stomach. Without a loose shirt covering it up, the swell of her belly was fairly obvious. She didn't look _pregnant_ pregnant yet, but she had the makings of a baby bump.

"The clock's ticking, mommabear," he said, and didn't sound like he was laughing anymore.

* * *

><p>The flight back to Gotham was just about as bad as the flight over, but at least she knew <em>why<em> she was so airsick, this time around. In retrospect, it was so obvious. Steph should have known after Cass had looked her over, seen the changes in her bearing, and figured it out. On some level, she had been in denial. She hadn't _wanted_ that to be the reason that she was a sick wreck, because she hadn't been ready to handle the complications.

But now, she was. At least, she was better equipped to handle what life was pelting her with. She had to remind herself of that a couple of times during the flight, then the ride to Wayne Manor.

Damian had to have seen them coming. That was just assumed, because nobody and nothing went unnoticed by the security systems. One did not simply walk into Wayne property. It just didn't work that way.

But he wasn't at the gate to turn them away, and he didn't answer the front door when she knocked. If he hadn't been home, the security system would have kicked in. Since it didn't, she had to surmise that he was there, and throwing what she'd dubbed a bitch fit.

Steph had expected that. The silent-but-seething treatment was one that he'd resorted to more than once.

Unfortunately for him, she _was_ going to talk to him, even if that meant yelling at the house itself until he called the police or started listening. And she knew that he wouldn't call the police, so it was just a matter of time until she broke his patience and got him to react.

It was easier than she'd anticipated. Out of curiosity, she'd punched in the last security code that had been set before she left.

And the door opened. It shouldn't have, because Damian changed the codes religiously, but it did.

She walked into the place she'd called home for the past three years, and found herself feeling more heartsore than anything else. Most of the lights were off, and rooms had been left completely untouched. It was eerily quiet, like it hadn't been lived in for weeks.

But Damian was there. She knew he had to be, especially after she heard a soft _thump_ and a trilling feline question.

Steph couldn't see him in the dark, but she knew that her furry baby was somewhere in the house, calling for her. It was stupid, because he was just their cat, but she'd missed that more than she'd realized.

"Alfie," she said, voice low. "I'm home."

And that was when Jason started swearing a blue streak.

The security codes had been easy to disable, but that wasn't the only thing keeping the manor safe from intruders. Alfred knew and recognized her, of course, but Jason was a stranger, as far as he was concerned. Alfred didn't like strangers, and she hadn't thought to warn Jason. The way he was yelling, he was being attacked by a raptor, not a singularly determined housecat.

"Alfie!" Steph hissed, grabbing for the puffed-up ball of black and white fur and claws before Jason shook him free. "It's okay! We like him! Stand down!"

Normal couples who had normal pets taught them normal commands. Alfred chose to listen to her, slithering up to perch on her shoulder and groom himself furiously. Once he'd tamed his coat, he headbutted her face and purred noisily.

At least someone was glad that she'd come back.

"I fucking hate your boyfriend," Jason said, with great feeling. "And I fucking hate your cat. And I need a fucking drink. Tell me you have booze somewhere."

"If D hasn't drank it all himself, we do," she said, and stood in front of the grandfather clock for a few long seconds before she went down. Jason followed two steps behind, gingerly touching the bleeding scratches on his face and neck.

Alfred hopped from her shoulder and lead her down the stairs and straight to Damian. He was standing by the computer console, arms crossed over his chest.

"Get out," Damian said, before she had a chance to say as much as _hi_. She'd expected him to be angry - she hadn't said goodbye, not really - but he just sounded tired and resigned. He looked like he hadn't eaten, shaved, or slept since his television appearance. He was gaunt and unkempt, two things he abhorred. "If you're here for the cat, you may not have him. He was a gift, if you remember correctly."

"I'm not here to establish custody rights of our furry child," Steph said, sighing. "I came to see you."

"And now you have." He said, so evenly he sounded robotic. "Get out."

"_Damian."_

"You're not wanted here, Brown. You made it clear that you don't want to continue our partnership. I have respected your space, so you will respect mine. If you want your things, take them and go. I don't fucking care."

Brown. _Ouch._ Twice-damned harlot at least had some investment in it, some laughter. Using her last name alone was an insult, but one that was gummy and uncomfortable, not sharp. He rarely, if ever, used her last name, because her father wasn't someone either of them liked to dwell on.

It was more effective than any four-letter word he could have balled up and thrown at her.

"I'll leave you two kids to sort yourselves out. I've got a date with your liquor cabinet," Jason said, forcibly cheerful. He gave her a look, a _you yell if you need me_, like he didn't quite trust Damian to stay in line. She wasn't positive if she appreciated that, or resented him for it. She wanted to believe that she could handle this situation, but it had already hiked up to a level of aggression she hadn't braced herself for.

Maybe she should have.

Silence hung between them. Damian said nothing, his body language too stiff to read. He'd thrown up every icy invisible wall possible, and she suffered the awful, gut-twisting idea that maybe he wouldn't forgive her for leaving. He'd given her more trust than he'd put in any other person alive, and as he saw it she had betrayed that thought that he might not want anything to do with her ever again made her feel vaguely like she was falling.

Vertigo would turn to nausea if she didn't cut it off at the quick, so she took a cleansing breath. She'd have to offer up an explanation if she puked on his shoes, and that wasn't a conversation she was prepared to have right then.

"You haven't changed the codes, D," Steph pointed out, finally.

"I've been busy."

"You change the codes twice a week, and it's been two months." She breathed in, then plowed on. "You don't really want me out, do you?"

"A dangerous assumption for you to make, Brown," Damian growled, and this time she winced reflexively, because it felt like a slap.

But like _hell_ would she come all this way just to let him bully her.

"It's not an assumption," Steph said, her voice hard. If he thought he could make her back down by namedropping her daddy issues, he was kidding himself - or didn't have much ammunition left. "I know that I'm right. You were _too busy_ - " and she threw that up in air quotes, just so he knew she meant business. " - to do basic security maintenance. Come on. Who do you think you're talking to? You're talking to the girl who was locked out _how_ many times, and had to yell until the security cameras picked it up. You chose to keep them the same. Don't try to bullshit me."

His mouth bunched and pulled, a sneer that didn't quite make it to indifference.

"You made your decision. I will not - " Damian paused for a beat. " - _cannot_ - change. Thus, we are at an impasse. You're wasting your time here. I won't ask you to leave again."

It was that pause that answered the question of whether or not he had forgiven her. If it'd been just _will not_, she would have chalked it up to stubbornness and ego, and yes, she would have been wasting her time.

But he'd said _cannot._

"Because the big bad Bat got himself into a deal, and _noooooobody_ can save him now." Steph's voice got steadily louder; she gestured widely with both hands. "So you're just going to let yourself die horribly and go to hell, because you made your bed and are going to sleep in it like a REAL man."

"Don't patronize me," Damian muttered, too tired to sound annoyed.

"You can't change, but not because you don't want to change. You can't, because there's no hope for you at all," she continued, hearing her own voice echo back faintly. Leathery wings beat high above their heads.

"Get out," he said, no tone or inflection at all. If anything, he might've been resigned.

"No," she snapped, and felt her emotions bend in weird, hormonally-driven ways. She wanted to cry and to slap him in equal parts. "Because what you think is complete bullshit. There's still hope for you, and I want to help. I'm your partner. Let me."

Damian's expression crumpled. He bowed his head.

"Stop it. Just - stop it, you insipid twat. You can't will this situation better," he said, and then: "I poison everything around me. I've accepted this fact. You should, too."

"Damian," Steph sighed, dropping down to a less aggressive volume. He seemed sufficiently beaten-down, and yelling at him wouldn't help. She wanted to reach for him, but she knew that she couldn't. "You can't really believe that."

"How can I not?" He demanded, low and tight and angry. Finally,_something_. "Use your fucking head for once. Your absence has given me time to think, and I realize now that leaving was the correct decision for you to make. If you have any sense whatsoever, you will _stay_ gone."

Damian really did believe that, and it broke her heart. It was one thing to think poorly of yourself, but another thing entirely to feel like you cursed everyone around you.

"Do you want me to leave?"

She'd posed that exact question to him the night she'd left. He'd said no, but he'd outlined conditions she couldn't abide by. Now, she was just checking in to see if anything had changed in the past two and a half months - if he'd hit the epiphany she'd been praying for.

If nothing had changed, she wouldn't be coming back for a third time. She'd disappear, and he would never know about their child. As he was now, he was right - he was dangerous to be around. His self-destructive habits created a blast radius that was impossible to live inside.

"I love you," he said hoarsely, looking down at his hands. "That has not changed. Nothing has changed, not for me. Dismiss it as youthful inexperience if you must, but I do not believe that _will_ change. Because of that, I want you to go. Please, Stephanie."

And she knew that. Steph believed him. It scared her to believe that he could love anyone like that, much less _her_, but she knew it was the truth. That was one of the things that had brought her back. Tarnished soul or not, he deserved a chance at a real life.

"I did what you told me not to do," Steph said. She couldn't touch on his admission. Couldn't dwell on the fact that he'd broken down enough to tell her that he loved her. Not yet. "I started looking for a plan B for your deal."

Damian's head jerked up; his eyes were wide. _"No."_

"And," she continued on like she hadn't heard his plead, "I found one."

He stared at her, mouth partially open. It wasn't often that unflappable Damian Wayne wore that expression.

"No. No such thing exists. You cannot undo a deal like mine. You don't know how demons work."

"I found a way," Steph repeated, this time firmer. "I don't know how demons work, but I used my lifeline and phoned a friend who happens to be an expert in demon deals. But it's up to you if you'll take it. If you do - and if it works - your deal will be void. You'll be 100% human again. No more super healing, no more cheating death."

Silence stuffed in around them again, cottony and thick. Damian stared at her and she didn't look away. His hands - clenched in white-knuckled fists at his sides - relaxed, and he rubbed them over his face.

"If I do this, will you come back?" Damian asked, cautiously hopeful.

"You can't do this for me," Steph warned him, both hands held up. She hated to say it, because _yes_ would have been so easy. _Yes_ would have sealed the deal, would have ensured that everything could have been neatly wrapped up between them, but she couldn't say it, not in good conscious. Holding herself back was a struggle. "This has to be something you do for yourself, because you want to live and not punish yourself for living. If you don't do this for yourself, we're back to square one and the vicious self-hate cycle starts all over again. You're a good man, and you need to start treating yourself like one."

"I don't - I do not - "

His chin trembled and he closed his eyes, trying to compose himself. Stupid, arrogant, self-righteous Damian Wayne was having a complete breakdown in front of her. Two minutes ago, he'd been yelling - yelling at her, raging. But now, he was crying. He sat down heavily in his chair, face in his hands. His shoulders shook, but he made no sound.

She'd known that leaving would hurt him, but she hadn't expected how much. She'd seen him cry exactly twice, and both times it'd been over the loss of his father and brother. She hadn't anticipated him crying over_her_ - that he'd put her absence on the same level as those who were dead and gone forever.

Steph closed the distance between them finally, her hands on his back. His arms slid around her, pulling her close and all but crushing her against him. It made her stomach flip-flop weirdly when he pressed his face against her and cried - she knew he couldn't possibly know about the baby, but to have him touch her belly like that made her heart forget its usual tempo. She hadn't expected this kind of unselfconscious breakdown - especially with Jason still lurking - but Damian was rarely able to express how deeply he felt about the people around him. She stroked back his hair, curling around him protectively.

"I do not respect the man I have become," Damian said, his voice thick and hoarse. "If there is a way, I will take the risk."

So, that was a yes.

Unfortunately, getting him to throw in with The Plan was the easiest part of it.

* * *

><p>Steph had to make Damian swear that he wanted to see The Plan through to its end, because he would've balked if he hadn't been bound by his own word. She could tell that each new element that she revealed was making him more and more uncomfortable, and she'd purposefully kept most of the details from him. He'd been argumentative when she'd told him that their know-how and help was coming from John Constantine, suspicious when she'd insisted that they had to do it as soon as possible, and more critical of the whole thing once they'd chosen a small, abandoned house at the outskirts of the city and began preparing it for their otherworldly caller.<p>

Steph was asking a lot of him. She knew that better than anyone. Damian was a control freak, so to have his soul riding on a plan he barely understood was maddening for him. She could all but _watch_ him discover the holes, the things that she'd kept quiet - he'd asked where Jason had gone to four times just in the time it took John to get the summoning incense burning and the chalk lines lightly mapped out on the uneven wooden floor.

"Jay's doing errands" stopped being an acceptable answer for him, so Steph finally took his hand and pulled him into one of the empty spare rooms.

The house was condemned and decrepit, about as far away from romantic as possible. Still, she held his hands and managed a smile.

"I don't like this," Damian said, his brows rucked together with worry. Helplessness hadn't been a good fit for him, ever. "I don't like Jason's involvement, and I don't like Constantine much either, though I recognize his expertise in this field. And I," the worry-crease across his forehead deepened. "I would rather you were not here for this. The fewer people present, the better."

"I know," she said, still disarming him to the best of her abilities with a smile. "This'll be risky. We _are_ dealing with a demon, here. But I'm the one who threw this thing together, so I'm going to see it through. No matter what happens."

"I - I just - "

"I love you, Dami," she said, touching his jaw lightly with her fingertips. "This is a good plan. Trust me."

And then, before he could react or realize what she was doing, she cracked his jaw the same way Cass had done to her so many times so many years ago - a nerve strike. She hit hard, though, as hard as she could. Hard enough that it was overkill, or actual 'kill'. His eyes rolled back and he crumpled.

"I could've done that," Jason said, leaning in the doorway. She shook her head.

"He would've seen it coming and fought you. I wanted it to be as painless as possible, so it had to be me. We won't have much time before he comes to. Let's get this going."

"As the lady wishes," he said with a flourish. He left the room, and she knelt next to Damian's unconscious body. Guilt tugged at her, but she knew that if he was fully aware of what was going on, he'd tear it all apart and want to discuss what they were doing and why they were doing it. He wouldn't think that he was worth the risk, and they'd argue.

She couldn't let herself - or anyone else - overthink this. They didn't have the time for it. The window of opportunity was narrow enough as-is, and she didn't want to fight with Damian over whether or not he deserved the sacrifice.

Jason may have come up with the plan, but she was the one who had gathered up all the pieces and put it into motion. She knew that it wasn't right by Bruce's working definition, but none of them were him.

They wouldn't break his law, but they would pry it apart for any loopholes. Right then, right there, that was what was necessary.

Jason came back with a body slung over his shoulder. She heard them coming, because there was no mistaking _that_ voice. "It's been so _long_ since we've seen each other. Don't you want to _catch up?_ I only want to know how you've been - nothing up my sleeve this time. It's only the breeze we'd be shooting, I swear!"

Jason unloaded the Joker without any grace or care. The skinny man was half stripped and bound four different ways. They hadn't wanted to take any chances at all.

"If I don't ask for the nitty-gritty details of what you've got planned, can I watch?" Jason asked with a sharp, dangerous grin. He was vibrating with tension, a screaming red emotion that being near the Joker brought out in him. He hadn't been able to defeat his monster, hadn't been able to do what he felt that Bruce should have done.

He hadn't been able to do what Steph was about to be party to. She was dizzy and nauseous just thinking about it, but she crushed all obvious signs. She had to put on her strongest face. If she didn't act like she was confident that this would work, it wouldn't. She knew all about self-defeating prophecies.

"Yeah," Steph said, looking at the thin, ugly man on the ground. Tied up and prone, he didn't seem as terrifying. "You should be here for this. I figured you'd want to be."

"What's the plan?" The Joker said, his teeth stained a filmy pink with blood. He craned his neck to look around him, taking in the chalk lines that John had drawn on the floor and walls. "Oooh, ritual sacrifice? You don't say! If _only_ you'd told me ahead of time, I would've worn my good suit. Blood doesn't show up as well on purple, don't you know."

He keened with shrill, painful laughter. Jason tensed further, grimacing. She wondered if he heard that laughter in his nightmares, the way she heard Black Mask's oily little chuckle.

"I wouldn't trade this moment for the world. Cupcake, you know me so well," Jason said - and it would've been a drawl if he hadn't been grinding his teeth - and slammed the steel-reinforced toe of his boot into the Joker's gut. The laughter cut off into a high wheeze, like a dog's chew-toy being squeezed. "It looks to the Proud Prince of Pranks that you're looking to cut a deal," The Joker said, his voice lowering to a rumbling octave Steph swore she felt in her ribs. "I already sold my soul once, my precocious little pranksters!" And again, that grating laughter. "_For a box of cigars!_ Don't you know a joke's only funny if it comes in ones or threes? Two is _never_funny."

"It'd explain why he's still here," Steph muttered to Jason, forcing herself to look away from the sallow-faced monster on the floor. "Shouldn't he be like sixty or something?"

"No, whatever keeps him farm fresh has been there since the first time he showed up in Gotham. So I'm gonna guess that he found a way out of his gentleman's agreement with whatever demon he handed his soul over to."

"Neron," Steph said. Jason didn't turn, and she couldn't see his eyes behind the white-out lenses of his domino mask, but she could feel him search her for an answer. She could feel his question, but she wasn't going to address it.

The Joker had been ignoring her for the most part, all of his leering attention focused on the bird that'd gotten away. And, well, Jason had been standing half in front of her - the stance felt protective, but she didn't want to label it as such - so she'd been easy to miss behind his bulk. The fact that the clown was staring hard at her was proof enough that she'd tracked down the right demon.

John had given her two qualifiers when it came to demon deals. Firstly, you had to be willing to sacrifice to seal the deal. Secondly, you had to know who you were dealing with. When he'd dealt with the Joker, Neron had been the ruler of Hell. The Big Guy Downstairs. According to John, there'd been an uprising, and leadership had switched hands. Neron had died, rendering the contract Joker had made void. Conveniently, the demon that'd done business with Damian when he'd been fourteen and terrified was Neron's replacement.

"Who _is_ your little friend?" The Joker asked, his tone conversational on the surface. This was the man who found murder hilarious, so a mild demeanor meant nothing. She felt the threat he left unvoiced, and wished that John would hurry and finish up. "I feel like we've met, honeybritches, but I juuuuust can't put my finger on it! Give ol' Mr. J a_clue_, won't you?"

Jason leaned into her, a hand on her hip, and murmured into her ear like he was calming down a skittish horse.

"Don't let him get in your head, Steph. He won't get back out. Let's do this and be done."

The Joker erupted with hysterical laughter again. It was part sob, part shriek, part inhuman nails dragging relentlessly down a chalkboard.

"Stephanie Brown!" He said, too-wide smile leering. "I _knew_ I knew I knew you. You were the sweetest little Robin I could hope for, but then Black Mask stole you away before we could meet. I almost killed him for that, you know?"

Steph couldn't breathe. All the air had been sucked out of her lungs, punched out of her throat. Years ago, those had been the words she'd wanted to hear. She'd wanted to hear them so _badly_, but neither Tim nor Bruce had given her that.

The _Joker_ had tried to avenge her death?

She couldn't manage laughter or tears. She stood, staring.

"Oh, I'm just tickled pink," the Joker trilled, rolling like an excited child. "I finally have a chance at a clean sweep once again! Since there haven't been any new Robins in _aaaaages_, I'll just start from the last and work my way back up. I wonder whatever happened to the last one. He was such a little scamp. And so handy with a crowbar!"

That was where the Hood's self-imposed calm fractured.

"Listen up, fuckface," Jason snarled, his hand fisted in the clown's hair. "You're not doing shit. After tonight? You're _done._ Curtain call. Hear that, chuckles? It's the fat lady, and she's singing your song."

"The joke's on you, kiddo. The laughs will never stop rolling! Not tonight, not ever!"

"Kind of the definition of final words there, innit?" Constantine asked mildly, leaning against the doorframe. He ground out his cigarette with a nod to Steph. He might have been a complete bastard, but that didn't mean he wasn't a gentleman once in a while, when the mood hit him. "I'm all through with my bit. Shall I pitch in a hand dragging the bodies to the living room, then?"

"Help me with D," Steph asked, because she knew there was no way she could move him on her own. He had at least fifty pounds on her - maybe a little less, considering how he'd been taking care of himself in her absence. "Leave the Joker in here. I don't want him to know about him until the ball's already rolling."

"Lemme," Jason said, nudging her hands away. He hefted Damian up and over his shoulder with relative ease. "Shouldn't be doing any heavy lifting in your delicate condition."

"Of all the things she shouldn't be doing in her condition - but is doing anyway, peach that she is - heavy lifting is low on the list tonight, m'lad," John pointed out, but not unkindly.

"I know," Steph said, swallowing hard. "Believe me, I know."

The house had been someone's home, once upon a time, and when she'd first walked in she had seen the signs of life here and there. The big quake had made the neighborhood unlivable, so it was a ghost town of skeletal homes, mostly grown over and consumed by the greenery that was all too common now that Ivy had gone wild. John had transformed it in less than twenty minutes, pushing sunken-in couches and chairs to the corners of the room. The walls and floor were decorated with the lines of a magic circle, and there were sticks of summoning incense burning at the center. They bellowed steady, curling ribbons of smoke that brought tears to Steph's eyes.

John stood in the center of the circle, a sword in one hand. Jason dumped Damian in one of the mostly-rotted chairs, and he groaned. He was starting to come to.

"Didn't bother with the cats," John mentioned offhandedly. "Never had a taste for it, and they scream bloody murder when you impale 'em. It's just to impress the locals, if you know what I mean. Not necessary, any of it."

"Cats?" Steph repeated. She must have looked green, because he grinned.

"This'll get a lot worse than dead kittens before it's through. If you're going to be sick, get it out of your system. Preferably outside the circle, luv. I don't want to have to draw it all up again, and it's not the time or place to experiment with new elements."

"…Stephanie?" Damian demanded, holding his jaw and sitting up. "What in God's name do you - "

"Let's just jump right in it, then, shall we?" John said, and slit his own wrist with the edge of the blade. His blood was like tar, more black than red, and it hissed and bubbled when it hit the chalk on the floor. "Blaze, you Godless whore-queen of the pit, I'm calling your marker! Come up and have a talk! There's plenty in it for you, you selfish wretch."

Steph wasn't sure, but that didn't seem like a good way to call a demon. She was starting to get an idea of why people didn't team up with him very often - or why they didn't live very long around him.

The response was instantaneous, though. Say what you wanted about his methods, but John Constantine got results. Part of the floor caved, spitting sparks and a noxious steam that smelled strongly of rotten eggs.

A woman rose from the hole, pushed upwards by a hundred twisted, broken arms. When Damian had said he'd made a deal, she - and even_thinking_ about it now made her feel like an idiot - had imagined a man with a pitchfork. He hadn't given any details, so she had no idea that he'd sold his soul to a orange-skinned demoness with long black hair and ram's horns. She was beautiful, but in the way a natural disaster was beautiful: the sheer force of what it was capable of, what it could destroy, swept away the ruined bodies and left awe and fear in equal parts.

Hell currently had a Queen.

This was news to Steph.

"Who," the demoness asked, her voice slippery-slick. It was physically painful, but Steph couldn't put into words what it felt like. It just _hurt_, splintering in her head like a spike being driven at the base of her skull, tiny fireworks of agony that sizzled and bit. "Are _you?_ This ritual is an insult. You're either a stupid worm, or an insolent one."

"All insolence is on me, luv," John said, his grin crooked. "But I'm merely the operator connecting this call."

"I am Ibn al Xu'ffasch," Damian said levelly as he stood, like he didn't feel the demoness the way the rest of them did. He could call up that ice and haughtiness that made him _him_ no matter the situation. "Damian Wayne, Son of the Bat and heir to the House of al Ghul. You have dealt with me once before, and you shall do so again."

"Oh, _you,_" the demoness rumbled, physically crawling up her skin and hissing tiny hot needles into each and every pore. "I remember you, boy. What makes you think you have something I want? I already have your grubby little scrap of soul meat." Damian hesitated, but only because he didn't know. Waking him up just in time for the main event had ensured that.

"We're here to barter," Steph said, chin raised.

And that's when Jason came in with the ace.

She saw it all play out on Damian's face - shock made him weirdly transparent, one thing that his various trainers hadn't managed to beat out of him. It was probably because not a lot rocked Damian, so moments of dangerous clarity were rare. But he looked at Jason, looked at the Joker - and there was a recoil of disgust across his features - then looked at her. He was demanding an answer, but the panic in his eyes said that he already knew.

He was the bright one between the two of them, after all.

"And what makes you think that _this_ thing will tickle my fancy?" Lady Blaze asked, her terrible voice stretched into a bored drawl.

"This is the Joker," Steph said, and smiled. She put on the air of a saleswoman, gesturing with a practiced turn of her wrist. Daddy had taught her all about confidence tricks, so she knew how to sell a lemon if she had to. "Fell in a vat of chemicals, came out homicidal - you know the whole shebang, right?"

"Don't try my patience," the demoness said, which she translated as _yes._

"Right. So, he sold his soul a couple years back, to your predecessor. The deal was broken when Neron died, but you and yours wouldn't have gotten him, anyway. He's got this _thing_, this ability to not age and not die, and that means that you demons got gypped."

The tarfire pits of her eyes narrowed, and the cooked meat-and-hair smell intensified. Steph swallowed frantically, breathing choppily. Had to keep it together. _Had to._

"And I know," she said, not letting her voice quiver. "I know that your people hate that kind of thing. Being shortchanged, I mean. It's gotta be a blow to the pride - speaking as an insolent worm and-or useless sack of mortal meat, you're pretty impressive. Compared to you, I'm nothing. I know that. I accept that. I'm not trying to cheat you."

"Go on," Lady Blaze instructed, and she sounded _curious._ Curious was good. She could work with curiosity.

"So. So here's my deal. I'll exchange the soul and functioning immortality of this cheater - " and she pointed to the Joker, who seemed so frail now, so wholly impotent. Then she pointed to Damian. The real, tangible fear in Damian's eyes scared Steph by proxy, but she had to keep pressing her advantage. He was scared _for_ her, but she only had one shot at this thing. He'd understand, later. Hopefully. If there was a later for either of them. " - for the soul and functioning immortality of_this_ cheater. And I know that sounds like a straight switch, but it's not. Hear me out."

The room had gotten hot, but hot in a way that transcended heat. It was difficult for her to think, and harder yet to breathe. Steph wasn't sure when her nose had started bleeding, but she didn't realize it until she tasted salt and copper when she licked her lips. She felt like passing out would be a blessing, but she couldn't.

Fingers laced with hers, cool by comparison. Damian said nothing, but he stood beside her and held her hand tightly.

He trusted her. More than anyone else ever had, he trusted her.

"Either way, you win," Steph said, wiping her face on the back of her free hand. "Take this offer, and you're guaranteed the Joker. If you give Damian back his soul, there's still a chance that you'll end up with him, too. He's on your naughty list, right? If he doesn't get his shit in line before he dies, he's yours for all of eternity." Lady Blaze seemed to think about this offer, toying with the idea. Everything that Steph had said had been true, and delivered with 100% honesty. She'd laid down her whole hand, and even appealed to the demoness' vanity and ego. That had been her A game, and if it wasn't enough she could at least find some dim comfort in the fact that she'd given it all she had.

"The contract between us will stand as such, immutable from this point forward. You, Stephanie Brown, will sacrifice the mortal soul and abilities of this man - " The demoness' smile showed an impossible amount of teeth. " - the Joker. The soul of Damian Wayne will be returned to him in recompense, but his previous deal with me will be rendered null and void. Do you accept these terms?"

"Yes," Stephanie said, and the Joker started howling. The sound wasn't human. It was frustration and rage and fear at the most primal levels.

"_No!_ Don't I get a SAY? This can't be the punchline! You can't do this! You - !" Jason grabbed him, slamming his head against the floor. The clown's voice dribbled off into a wet, limpid, "But this isn't funny. This isn't funny at all."

Lady Blaze's predatory smile said that she thought it was very, very funny.

"Then it is done," she said, and the blood and chalk lines themselves started to twist and shriek.

* * *

><p>"C'mon, sunshine. Wakey wakey."<p>

Damian dragged in the last of his first breaths, shivering and disoriented. He _hurt_. His throat was raw and his chest was incandescent; he vaguely remembered screaming until his voice broke. It'd been more agonizing than anything he'd experienced before, and he had met and crushed the human capacity for pain many times over. The demoness hadn't touched him, but he'd still felt her rooting around in his chest, cracking back each individual rib and _pushing_ something both intangible and impossibly heavy inside him. Coming back from the dead in a dozen different ways had hurt less than having his soul returned to him.

But, he was alive. He was alive, and it was raining.

"What happened?" Damian croaked, struggling to make sense of what was going on. The roof and most of the upper storey of the house had been ripped back, letting in a steady drizzle. He was on the floor, his head and shoulders resting on someone's thigh. He knew that it was his partner's lap without glancing to confirm, but he forced himself to turn to look at her, anyway.

Stephanie was haggard-looking and pale, her hair a ratty mess clinging to her face and neck. Her nose was crusted with dried blood, and her clothes were soaked through.

"Oh, lots," she said with a slightly hysterical laugh. She rubbed one eye with the heel of her hand. Movement was agonizing, but Damian sat up and put an arm around her, drawing her close. Her skin was cold. Too cold. They shivered in tandem, vibrating on the same frequency. "Congrats on your soulification. How's it feel?"

"Terrible," he rasped. He'd almost lost his voice entirely.

"You're welcome," Steph said, and she managed to smile.

Damian's thoughts were molasses-slow. Each one had to be addressed individually. Christ, he was _tired._

"Where's Constantine?"

"I have no idea. Think he left when things with the demon looked semi-dicey. Can't say I blame him."

"And Todd?"

"Doing errands," she said, which he understood meant that Jason was relocating the now-mortal, now-geriatric Joker. He hoped that the Hood dropped him off at the Commissioner's doorstep, but he didn't care if he got that far. "Think you can walk? I need to pass out, or throw up, or throw up and pass out. I'm pretty much done with today."

"I can walk," Damian said, though he wasn't completely sure of it. He worked his way to his feet, and when they supported his weight, he held out his hands to help her up. They more or less propped each other up. It was pitiful. After about three miles of walking through the rainy night, Stephanie stopped without warning, doubled over, staggered over to the curb, and was violently sick.

Damian hesitated, then combed back the wet straw tangle of her hair. He spread a hand over her back, stroking the curve of her spine as she heaved. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, not offering so much as an unfunny quip about how she'd already met one of her goals. Steph's face was almost gray, her lips bloodlessly pale.

"Come here," he said, leaning over and offering her his hands again.

"You can't carry me," Steph said tiredly. "You're barely vertical yourself, mister. Just gimme a few seconds to settle my stomach and I'll be fine."

"No," Damian said, digging deep and finding his favorite old air of condescending. "I can carry you. You're ill."

She looked at him, and it hurt to look back at her. He'd never seen her so wholly exhausted. Setting his wrongs right had put her through the wringer. She'd sentenced a man's soul to damnation - for _him._ He hadn't known that she had that in her, and wished that he had never found out. He was proud of her, but it was tinged with shame. He would never know if those depths had always existed in her, or if he'd dragged her to them.

He understood why his father hadn't been able to fully trust her, but what Father had seen as rogue tendencies, he saw as loyalty.

He'd repay that loyalty, if she'd let him.

"I'm your partner. Let me," Damian said, when she didn't reply. "Please."

Wordlessly, Stephanie slid her arms around his neck and let him pick her up. She was heavy in his arms, her solid weight making his already spasming muscles scream, but he didn't let it show. He couldn't, not when he had endured far worse. He couldn't, not when it'd been so long since he'd held her. He would carry her as far as he had to.

"I missed you," she mumbled against the side of his neck. "You and your stupid face."

"And I, you," he agreed, glad when he saw the faint pinpricks of headlights in the distance. He wasn't sure where they were at, but the Batmobile had been able to find them. "And your stupid face."

When the Batmobile stopped in front of them, engine purring, he set her on her feet again. The locks popped open automatically, and he got behind the wheel.

He turned the car to autopilot, because for once he didn't trust himself to stay focused enough to drive. Stephanie stayed in the passenger seat for all of thirty seconds before crawling into his lap again. Damian leaned his seat back and held her. The familiar, predictable pattern of her breathing made his body ache for sleep all the more. He knew that with her there, it would be real sleep, _good_ sleep. If she stayed. That wasn't a discussion that they'd finished, and neither of them were in any shape to argue it out. But she wanted to be near him, and that was encouraging. He'd missed it. Physical contact had been rare and mostly unwanted for most of his life, but once he'd acclimated to it, it'd become a very real _need._ Maybe his body or his psyche was making up for lost time - frankly, he didn't care about the whys or hows of it, and merely knew that he was grateful to have it again.

It felt like everything should have changed after the deal was broken. It felt like life should never have been the same again, but that wasn't the case. Life went on, the world kept spinning, and their nightly routine played out like it always had. They stumbled back to the cave, shucking off ruined clothing and leaving a trail from the entryway to the washroom. Damian watched Stephanie wash her bloodied face, though his eyes kept sliding shut. He couldn't remember _ever_ feeling so exhausted. He didn't have the energy to ask where they were now and if they were okay again, so he allowed her to lead him to his room, his bed.

They almost literally fell into bed together, getting into their familiar tangle of limbs and legs. She kissed him once, lingeringly, but he couldn't force himself to keep awake for more than that. He was dimly aware of her touching his face with her cold fingertips, of her mumbling something along the lines of, "You can sleep now, stupid. I'm not going anywhere."

And for the first time in months, he slept peacefully.


End file.
